In the Wake of the Nine
by Morthoron
Summary: A serio-comedy epic in which nine disparate characters get sent out on a quest. Their mission? To act as a ruse for the actual Fellowship of the Ring, who play no part whatsoever in this tale. Much mayhem, mistaken identities and double-entendres ensue.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I: All in a Night's Work**

Ossian blundered blindly through the stables. It was in the waning hours of night, and even with overcast skies he could perceive the moon ebbing slowly in begrudging deference to the coming dawn. Cursing as he attempted to saddle his horse in the dark, he could already hear the angry shouts and see the swaying light of jostled lanterns as a mob drew ever nearer to the stables. Ah, Bree! He muttered. Never a dull moment in this seemingly sleepy little town!

The bard had just finished a performance at the Prancing Pony only a few hours earlier, a rousing rendition of ballads, lays and instrumental accompaniments that brought down the house. The Pony was still abuzz over the strange occurrences that had happened only a few weeks before: vanishing hobbits and black horsemen and surly rangers! And the Pony's proprietor, one Barliman Butterbur, still edgy from such a harrowing experience, was quite satisfied with the great minstrel's act, as it "Let the ill-winds a' blowed over," as the innkeep told his servant Hob. For Ossian always had an open invitation to play at the inn by invitation of the inestimable B. Butterbur anytime he happened to wander into the northern provinces. Nothing to do with the bard's artistry, really, but if it was one thing that the plump innkeeper enjoyed more than all else, it was the jingle of coin, and Ossian brought in the crowds.

Well then, where were we? Ah yes, having just finished a performance only a few hours earlier, Ossian had merely enjoyed the perquisites of minstrelsy thereafter. She was such a sweet thing, how could he have known she was married? He supposed he could have asked, but does one ask the bees if their honey can be tasted? Ossian shrugged and smirked as he managed to fasten the last buckle on his saddle and made sure all the straps were secure. He then bounded atop his steed and carefully guided the sleek stallion through the stable doors.

The villagers were in plain sight now, and by a stroke of ill fate, the moon managed to break free of the blustery clouds and cast telltale radiance upon him. Spotting the rider, the aggrieved husband swore up a blue streak and ran towards the amused bard. Ossian waited patiently astride his horse (the horse waited patiently as well - it had been through this type of discomfiture on may occasions). The husband found himself at last standing before the looming bard, and he hesitated. Looking nervously about, the man suddenly realized he had outdistanced his comrades and was now alone with Ossian.

"Well," Ossian drawled nonchalantly, "is there something I can assist you with?"

The man frowned mightily, but did nothing. Evidently, Ossian's renown as a duelist had preceded him and caused the husband pause.

Ossian, noticing the man's friends getting dangerously close, bowed from the saddle and gave the man a wink, saying, "Dear friend, 'tis been a pleasure meeting you, witty conversationalist that you are. But I fear that all may well change when your cronies arrive. I enjoyed having your wife - I hope she enjoyed being had."

The husband let out a bellow of inchoate fury and rushed towards the smirking bard, only to be felled with a well-placed boot heel to the face. Ossian dropped a small bag of coins at the dazed man's feet to assuage his wounded pride and added, "In my defense, I must say there was no sign of marriage banns at the point of entry." He then sped off eastward into the remains of the night, the winking lights of the howling villagers soon fading into darkness.

"Hmmm," Ossian said, to no one in particular, "where shall I be off to then?" He smiled and then laughed aloud. But then the bard suddenly remembered his errand, and in a more somber tone he answered himself, "Well then, as I am heading east, I shall seek for Imladris! Perhaps the Elves have news of he for whom I seek. If anything, the dining is good there, and Elrond's folk are more hospitable than their suspicious kin in Greenwood the Great, east of Hithlagaer."

Ossian thought of the prospects of traveling so far afield, and he glowered sadly. He then shrugged and gave his horse a kick. "For duty and country." he sighed.

Ossian rode hard throughout the day and made for Weathertop, arriving sometime after midnight. Not bothering to eat, still he started a fire, and curled up and caught brief snatches of fitful respite wrapped in a heavy cloak against the chill winds of Northern Eriador. At dawn he awoke in an ill mood and with a kink in his back.

"Cursed stones of Arthedain," he grumbled, "they could not withstand besieging Angmar, yet they manage to defeat my slumber!"

He tossed a rock in disgust and guided his horse to some prime forage. Hungry himself, Ossian cursed again. His quick exit from Bree had left him without proper victuals for such an arduous trip. Feeling rather too lazy to go hunting, he sat on a tumbled granite pillar and watched his horse contentedly munch away on clumps of grass that forced their way tenaciously through the broken stone - refuse of a lost civilization. Seized by a sudden fit of minstrelsy, he sang half-heartedly:

_Feast among the bones _  
_The fallen thrones _  
_Crowned with barrow-green. _

_Supt thy fill, fallow roan _  
_Off this plate of stone _  
_Garnished with barrow-green. _

_Yet starving, I write this tome _  
_In ancient Dunedain's home _  
_Unable to digest this barrow-green._

Ossian's forehead furrowed and an immense frown curled his lip. Terrible meter, horrid rhyme, he thought. Never was he very creative without proper food or drink. He must reach Imladris 'ere he starved!

After his steed was fully sated, Ossian again continued his journey down the great East-West Road, making for the Ford of Bruinen. Welcomed he would be at the venerable Homely House of Rivendell; for though he was but a mere mortal, the last of the great Numenorean Bards was always a fixture of Elrond's court when he passed that way. Whether the elves truly enjoyed his gift, or whether perhaps they found the presumptive mortal merely amusing, Ossian could never quite tell. Yet Imladris was one of the few places left in Middle-earth where he had not been thrown out, banned or exiled, which was really saying something!

Suddenly, it hit him! In his scandalous retreat from Bree he had left his lute in his room at the Prancing Pony! Cursing each one of the Valar by name, Ossian wheeled his confused steed about in a great cloud of dust and gravel, and made off westward again. His stomach was in knots, not for lack of food, but rather for his instrument, his heart and his one true love: the lute made by the great Mahatan of Lebennin.

Ossian would reverently and obsessively wipe the beautifully polished instrument down each time before commencing to tune it. He loved the look and feel of his lute almost as much as the rich sound that flowed melodiously from its perfectly shaped bowl. The fluted birds-eye maple neck, the rich, dark luster of the lebethron base counterpointed handsomely by the flawless light amber graining of the mallorn top, and the black ebony fretboard intricately inlaid with mother-of-pearl from the shores of Dol Amroth to match the windings.

"Treat her like a woman," said Mahatan, the master luthier who had crafted the piece, before reluctantly delivering the instrument into Ossian's eager hands. "Caress her gently when you make love to her strings, and she shall only sound the better through the passing years!" How right the master luthier was! Like a fine Dorwinion wine, the lute's characteristics mellowed as it aged; yet each note was as clear as a tolling bell on a cloudless summer day.

And the anxious dream of a simple piece of wood and catgut assuaged Ossian's hungered cravings all the miles he backtracked to Bree. A piece of simple wood! There was only one like it in the waking world. And the cost! Let us just say if Ossian had not extorted a king's ransom from the self-styled Lord of Umbar for some dubious services performed, the lute would not have seen the light of day. But as he neared Bree, Ossian's attention was brought to bear on a lone traveler, Elvish or so he seemed.

"Continue on as you were rider. Your business is no concern of mine, nor mine of yours," the Elf growled warily. Yet Ossian stomach rumbled mightily and he thought of that wonderful Elvish invention, lembas. Did all Elves carry such manna? Ossian was uncertain, but his mouth was now watering, and needing to regain his strength before re-entering Bree, he dismounted his steed and bowed grandly.

"Well, speak your part then," said the Elf with a sigh. If anything, Elves were always polite. Haughty, perhaps - disinterested, certainly - but polite nonetheless.

The starving Minstrel bowed again, but a little less formally due to his stomach cramping. "I am Ossian," he said with much gravity, "Royal Bard of the Stewards of Gondor and Adjunct Loremaster of the Great Archives of Minas Tirith."

The Elf looked Ossian up and down. Certainly the man's outlandish garb marked him as a Southron. And tall he was, with sea-gray eyes. Perhaps he was a scion of ancient Numenor. Taking Ossian at his word, the Elf bowed in return, "I am Adurant, originally of Doriath, but late of Mithlond. How may I be of service to you?"

Ossian's eyes widened. A Sinda - walking alone on the Great East-West Road? There is a tale in this and that is for certain! Ossian thought with a smile. With a nod, the bard sang in pleasant baritone:

_A! Luthien! A! Luthien!_  
_more fair than any child of men;_  
_O! loveliest maid of Elfinesse,_  
_what madness does thee now possess!_

Now it was Adurant's turn to smile. That a mortal bard had the effrontery to sing of Luthien to a Sindarin Elf bespoke not of rudeness in this case, but of arcane knowledge and a respect for lore. That he knew lines from the Lay of Leithian confirmed the man's rather pompous title. Adurant finally laughed with delight and said, "Never would I have thought to hear songs of long lost Menegroth in the lands of mortal men! But come; will you not supt with me?"

Ossian gave a satisfied smirk. "Well, I had just eaten quite well a few hours earlier," he said, lying through his teeth, "but never would I turn down the hospitality of the Eldar!"

"Contextually, I am not of the Eldar."

"But you are Sindarin?"

"Yes, but although the Sindar are of the Teleri, we were not of the group that completed the journey to the Blessed Realm; ergo, we are not Eldar."

"But your King, Thingol, wasn't he of the Eldar?"

"Well, yes. Formally, I suppose."

"Damn Elvish technicalities."

"Even I sometimes get confused."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II: It's Like Déjà vu All Over Again**

Unfortunately, the elf named Adurant had no lembas, a fact he pointed out to Ossian in a rather long, tedious bit of exposition: "Of course, Melian of Doriath did indeed teach Galadriel - with a catholicity not usually found in Elvish rites - in the secret ways of baking the viaticum, but that does not mean that all elves throughout Middle-earth have a store of the waybread handy. On the contrary, most Elvish societies no longer practice the art. They are only half-baked, eucharistically speaking…", so on, and so forth. But the elf did have some barley bread, cheese and some dried fruit in his pack, and these he shared readily with the Bard of Gondor as he spoke.

Ossian made every effort not to roll his eyes and yawn at the long-winded elf's bantering. One would think that after a few millennia, an elf would have run out of things to say! The bard thought in amusement. But he bore Adurant's maundering as best he may, particularly since the elf was sharing the last of his provisions with him.

"As you have well surmised, I hail from the land of Doriath," Adurant continued unabated. "The land of the Hidden Kingdom of the Thousand Caves, home of the White Queen and the Stone of Béren. Or at least, I did. That was many, many years ago. If I were to recount my tale in full, you would need to write more than a mere poem, my good friend, to capture it in all its complexity." He paused with a chuckle, and then added, "But that is for another time."

Relieved, Ossian decided to change the subject. "Where did you say you were coming from?"

"I didn't," Adurant replied cryptically. He caught Ossian's raised eyebrow, and dropped his secretive pretense with a shy smile. "I had messages from Lord Cirdan for Master Elrond. I am newly returned from Imladris and heading for home."

"Ah, then your path leads through Bree!" Ossian clapped. "Perhaps you'll join me on the road, as I, too, am heading for Bree."

"Well, no – not Bree," Adurant replied apprehensively. "I am heading west, but my path does not lead me through Bree."

Ossian nodded. He suddenly remembered that elves were notoriously antisocial and secretive, and tended to stay away from the habitations of mortals, whether man, dwarf or hobbit. Ossian actually agreed with staying away from Hobbitish society as he found the halflings annoyingly stupid and gluttonous for the most part. The bard didn't even bother to mention the existence of Hobbits when he would return to Gondor after a long foray into the outer provinces, because who would believe him? They would all say he was drunk again. And drunk he may well be, but that was beside the point. In any case, it was probably best that Adurant did not join him in Bree. Things could get ugly.

"You seem lost in thought, friend," Adurant said with some concern.

"Oh, it's nothing," Ossian sighed and stretched. "Believe me, it is nothing at all."

After they had dined, Ossian, anxious to get to Bree to retrieve his prize (and even more anxious to avoid a certain angry husband and his kin), again invited Adurant to join him in his travels; but the bard added that the elf could avoid Bree if he wished. The elf, intrigued by the Gondorion and his grasp of lore, readily assented, and they began the last leg of the journey to the town.

"You have impressed me, good sir," Adurant said as they rode, "beyond what any mortal has done in _many_ a long year. Not meaning any offense, but the ignorance of your kind is sometimes more astounding than you know. I am glad you showed me that not every mortal is the same."

"Yes, the level of ignorance fluctuates some amongst my tribe," Ossian retorted, knowing that Elves were not perceptive of sarcasm. "But we men try to emulate your kindred whenever possible."

Quite pleased, Adurant nodded in oblivious appreciation.

At last they came in sight of Bree, faintly twinkling along its looming hill in the lambent moonlight of evening: a lantern-lit, ramshackle, daub and wattle series of chaotically placed berths, barns, bars and post and beam buildings, circled haphazardly by a stockade fence that leaned drunkenly in such serrated disarray that it might keep pigs in, but would not prove much of a hindrance to a determined invader. Ossian chuckled to himself. And who would invade Bree? More pigs?

Ossian leaned from his horse and said quietly to Adurant, "Here is where I shall leave you, friend. I pray that my mission shan't be too long."

But Adurant was in a jovial mood after whiling away a day with the mortal bard. "Ossian, it has been ages since I have walked amongst mortals. Certainly, there are a few men in Imladris, dour rangers mostly, but not a city swarming with your folk, and the little halflings as well! Pray, may I join you? I shall remain hooded and unobtrusive so as not to draw attention to ourselves."

Ossian tried not to look irritated, but this was no time to take an elf sightseeing through Bree. Yet the bard was in no mood to divulge the reason he was returning to Bree (and why he left in such a hurry!); but neither could he deny the elf without seeming insulting. The bard sighed heavily.

"Very well, friend elf," he grumbled. "But perhaps we should enter the town separately, and meet up later. You see, there was a minor…incident...when last I was here. You would do well to avoid making my acquaintance should certain folk take offense to my return."

Adurant merely shrugged. "The dwarves have a saying," he said, surprised at himself for even uttering a pearl of wisdom from the Naugrim, " 'faithless is he who abandons his comrades when the road is darkest' - or some such sentiment." He shrugged and smiled, "Worry not for my safety, Bard of Gondor, mere words cannot harm me!"

"Ah, but then you have never heard me curse!" Ossian said as he laughed aloud. "And it is not ill-spoken words that I worry about. The pen indeed is mightier than the sword, unless you have a blade held tight against your gullet!"

Adurant wondered at Ossian's strange analogies, but paid him no mind. After all, what could the seemingly harmless bard have possibly done to warrant any truly dreadful encounter?

**~~oo~~OO~~oo~~OO~~oo~~**

Ossian and Adurant fortunately avoided any unpleasantries as they descended upon Bree. Hooded and unassuming, they entered the town and made their way without incident to the stables and then to the Prancing Pony. Certainly, they could not have remained too nondescript, as they both were unusually tall for these northern climes and dressed rather richly for such a provincial burg; yet they had waited until well past nightfall to enter Bree and eschewed eye contact whenever possible. Once in the Inn, it should have been a simple matter of seeking out Ossian's friend, Barliman Butterbur, empty a few pints of ale, retrieve Ossian's priceless lute and leave again with no one the wiser. But alas, what should have been and what actually occurs seldom finds common ground.

As the two compatriots made their way through the crowded common room, a booming voice, seemingly meant for them, echoed to the rafters: "Evenin', dark and mysterious fellows! I nae know how it has gone wi' thee, whe'er good nor t'otherwise; 'erefore, I cannae simply say 'good evenin' right out o' the blue, now can I?"

Ossian winced, his plans seemingly frustrated, and Adurant grew ill at ease as he watched a rather large, red-bearded mortal lumbering towards them. That the oaf wielded an axe for no apparent reason only added to his irritation.

"There'll be no trouble here, eh?" The bear of a man growled menacingly. "Such stealthery seems ter say more than less."

Preparing for the worst, Ossian sized up his opponent warily. He was a huge specimen, no doubt, but evidently drunk. In normal circumstances, he would have winded the drunken buffoon with a dagger up beneath the rib cage before the brazen ruffian managed to lift his unwieldy axe, and have done with it. But secrecy was the order of the evening, and diplomacy - quiet and disarming - should prove more helpful to his cause.

Still hooded, Ossian bowed curtly and whispered, "Our business is none but our own, kind sir. But come, you seem to be well acquainted with John Barleycorn, perhaps you would like to join us at the bar for a round to his good health!"

The red-haired giant frowned as if deep in thought, but then he smiled a broad, gap-toothed grin. "I nae know this here John Barley-feller o' whom yer speak," he said in amusement, "but cert'nly I'll be a' drinkin' to his or t'anybody's health, an' lor' bless us all!"

Then the giant, with good-natured gruffness, gave Ossian an unexpected bear hug of welcome. Flummoxed, the bard attempted to restrain the boisterous brute's advance, but only managed to let fall his hood, revealing his features to anyone that cared. This of course set in motion a series of events that proved disastrous: as the giant let go of the bard he accidentally stepped into the innkeeper, Barliman Butterbur, who was passing with a tray laden with mugs; off balance, Barliman sent the tray sprawling onto some rather sour-looking Southrons, drenching them in ale; the clatter of crashing earthenware and the Southron's surprised and angry cries caused all eyes in the common room to focus on Ossian, Adurant, Barliman and the giant; a Breeman, brother of a certain aggrieved and cuckolded husband, just happened to be in the inn; this Breeman, upon recognizing Ossian the bard, ran out of the Prancing Pony with all haste, obviously to round up various relations and friends to lynch the poor bard.

As Barliman begged the Southrons' forgiveness and assuaged their dampened anger with a free round, Adurant and the giant followed the chagrined Ossian as he made his way quickly out of the spotlight. Cursing under his breath, the bard surrendered any thoughts of a quick get-away, and decided to enjoy a few pints before meeting with the inevitable welcoming committee of irate Breemen.

Sidling up to the bar, Ossian sighed as he handed pints to the giant and the elf. "As I stated earlier, my friend," the bard grumbled to the still-cloaked elf, "It would have been better if you had not joined me here."

"Nonsense, Ossian," Adurant smiled beneath the darkness of his cowl, "I shall share in any trouble this event has generated."

Ossian smirked, imagining the Sindar's final look of dismay as he dangled at the end of a rope. "Very well, friend," the bard replied, "I certainly hope that, in retrospect, you can make the same claim!"

Halfviss the Red, the lumbering Beorning, though slow on the uptake due to his bout of inebriation, finally caught on dimly to his folly. "Trouble y' say?" he rumbled. "If t'were I what caused yer distress, sure'n I shall ma' amends!" So saying, he patted the haft of his axe as an exclamation point.

Ossian rolled his eyes and replied, "That will not be necessary - what did you say your name was? Half Wit? - I believe you have done quite enough, thank you. But please, drink your fill, and to my health if you please, as this indeed may be my last toast."

As Ossian was talking, Barliman came up to them shaking his head in disgust. "Bard," he spat with some annoyance, "were you not an ol' acquait'nance, I'd bundle you out o' here double-quick, and make no mistake! Half the town is up in arms at your latest stunt, and the other half has taken up arms, if you get my meanin'."

Ossian bit his lip and quaffed his ale. "Then if it pleases thee, fair Butterbur," the bard replied coolly, "have you perchance found my lute? For it is the only reason I have returned to darken your door. Be assured, as soon as I retrieve it, I shall be gone and your fine establishment shall remain in one piece."

Butterbur winced at the prospect of seeing his inn in shambles. "Yes, yes, yes, Bard," the innkeeper mumbled worriedly, "I've already sent Hob off to get it, seeing as that lazy slowcoach was the one who went and found it while he were a' cleanin' your room." At that, the burly Butterbur waddled off, but added over his shoulder, "And Ossian, welcome you are after this all has done blowed over – p'raps a year or three!" The innkeep waded back into the sea of patrons and was soon lost in the smoke and bustle of the common room. True to Butterbur's word, the hobbit named Hob came scurrying from around the corner with Ossian's prize reverently packed in its black leather satchel.

Ossian placed the bundle carefully under his arm and nodded to his drinking companions. "If you will excuse me," he said with a sad smile, "I must be off. No rest for the wicked it seems." So saying, he walked briskly out of the Prancing Pony and out into the chill night air, carefully glancing down both sides of the thoroughfare as he came out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III: Je fis de Macabre la Danse**

Ossian rolled his eyes. Having left the inn on his own accord and in solitary fashion, he was irritated to be suddenly followed by an odd assortment of Middle-earth archetypes: there was, of course, Adurant the Sinda; the large red-haired man-bear - or whatever in Eru's name the giant had claimed descent from - named Halfviss; and Butterbur's lackey, the hobbit named Hob. In the distance, the bard could discern a group of torches bobbing down Bree's main thoroughfare. They are coming for me, he thought, then sighed, then rolled his eyes again.

"If you gentlefolk will excuse me, I have some pressing business to attend to - somewhere other than here – and alone. It was a pleasure making your acquaintances, one and all. But please, go back in to the Prancing Pony and have another round on me. Have the proprietor, Butterbur, put it on my account."

Now, Ossian did not have an account with old Barliman, seeing as he came up North only very rarely, and the inn business in those bad, old days was strictly cash and carry. Nevertheless, it seemed the only plausible means for the bard to extricate himself from these various folk, and still find time to make a dash for his horse and distance himself from the far more serious lynch mob that was at this moment winding its way towards the inn.

The elf, the man and the hobbit did not move.

"Begging your pardon, Master Bard," Hob piped in, "but Mr. Butterbur don't go in for accounts on no account, if you get my meaning."

The bard glared down at the cheeky Halfling and bit his lip in consternation. He decided at this point that perhaps the truth would be his only means of escape.

"Look there," Ossian said, pointing to the large group of villagers heading for them. "Those folks are out to cause me serious bodily harm. And it is not for a noble cause that I find myself in this predicament, nor do I expect your aid. Rather, I wish to leave...alone...and avoid potential injury altogether."

Halfviss grunted. What this grunt meant was lost on Ossian; that is, until the large mortal growled, "From ter sound o' it, our fae lil' bard done chose th' coward's way out." He then grunted again to emphasize his disgust.

Ossian frowned mightily. He should have stabbed the Beorning when he first had the opportunity. "Halfviss," the bard replied, "these are but poor, angry villagers, and not men of war. That I kill a half dozen of them before they finish me at last is not the makings of an epic ballad, nor do I wish to be remembered for falling at the hands of an angry farmer because I buggered his comely wife. Even though I did not know she was married at the point of entry."

The complexity of the situation suddenly dawned on the elf and the hobbit, and finally even the jovially besotted giant. "Ah...well then," Haflviss mumbled nervously, "p'raps I sees yer point."

Adurant, who had been growing more and more perturbed, asked, "Ossian, did you even bother to ask of the lady her status?"

Ossian loved the Elves, really he did. They were a wonderful race, highly ethical and steeped in grandeur. But sometimes they were as dense as doorknobs, most likely due to their utter detachment from the normal cycles of mortal life in Arda.

"Ummm...no, Adurant, that did not come up as a topic in our rather limited conversation," Ossian replied, his aggravation barely restrained. The bard saw that at this point fleeing was futile. The mob of angry Breemen, perhaps fifteen strong, were nearly upon them now. "And so I must make an end to this," Ossian sighed with a shrug. Turning to his comrades, he added, "I ask that you forebear any involvement in this calamitous situation." So saying, he placed his lute carefully out of harm's way, and strode off to meet the Breemen.

Mobs are a particularly strange type of beast, starting much like single-celled creatures that attach themselves in a colony of like-minded individuals and surrender any further personal preferences or codes of conduct. A mob has a mind of its own, yet it does not think. Ossian counted on that fact.

Drawing his sword and dagger, the bard directly confronted the mumbling, grumbling mob, which stopped in unison and fell silent. Ossian saw the furious husband in the forefront of the crowd, his face still sporting a livid black and blue pattern from the bard's well-placed boot heel. Ossian, never vulgar when it came to a duel, crossed his weapons against his chest and gave a courtly bow. He looked directly at the affronted husband and said, "I see that you have summoned half of Bree to fight your battles, my good man. 'Tis a pity I will have to kill so many of your friends and relations for an argument that should be settled between just you and I."

The villagers looked at each other grimly, then at the bright blades Ossian held menacingly in either hand, then they looked at their various cudgels, scythes, shearing knives, mattocks, rakes and hoes, then they looked back at Ossian, then they averted their eyes and stared at the ground.

But the husband, fearing his allies' courage was flagging, stepped forward, brandishing a dull knife and hissed, "Cursed bard, well known it is yer work with the blade! Duelerer and murtherer ye be from here to" - the husband stopped to collect his thoughts, as geography was certainly not his strong point - "well, from whiche'er wheres ye come from. It may be I die here, but that don't make you the better o' me." Then with a sudden flash of percipience (even though the man could never grasp such a term), the distraught husband added, "Might don't make right!"

The mob suddenly found its common voice again and added angry shouts of support and encouragement for each other.

Ossian smiled. "Ah, a philosopher as well as a hayward!" he said to the indignant husband. "No, my friend, might does not make right. And two wrongs do not make a right either - if you wish to bandy adages back and forth. I have wronged you, that is true; but I knew not that the woman I bedded the other night was your wedded wife. Therefore, be warned, I shall not go meekly to the slaughter. For I promise thee this: before I fall pray to this motley mob, several of you shall die in pain and anguish." Ossian glared angrily at the husband and growled, "And as you are the aggrieved party, you shall strike me the very first blow. I owe you that much!"

But surprisingly, the mob backed off. With a look of utter disdain, the disgusted husband spat at Ossian's feet, hurled his blade to the ground, turned, and stalked off into the night with his torchbearing relations hot on his heels.

Ossian gave a quizzical look and cocked his head in dismay. He hadn't expected such an odd turn of events. The bard shrugged and spun around to retrieve his lute. There, behind him, not more than three paces away stood Adurant with his sword unsheathed and the giant Halfviss brandishing his axe menacingly. Even Hob the hobbit held his broom in a most threatening manner.

Ossian laughed aloud and Hob blushed. So earnest was the young hobbit that the world-weary bard found his sincerity amusing and endearing all at once.

"What an odd bunch of reprobates, virgins and fools we are!" Ossian chuckled. "But I have tarried in my own affairs overlong. An urgent matter has set me on the road from Gondor to Imladris, and I am afraid I have been a poor choice as messenger for my lord."

This news was a bit too much for the staid and responsible Adurant. "Ossian," he said, with as much annoyance as an elf could muster, "you carry messages from your lord, and yet you waste precious days tarrying in taverns and…and….bedding women?

"Well, I did say I was a poor choice as messenger," the bard muttered, stung by the elf's words and suddenly quite chagrined at his own folly. "But, as I am a bard, I am of little use in the war effort." Ossian's eyes darkened and he added dejectedly, "I suppose I was deemed expendable. My foolish errantry proves as much."

Adurant was moved by the bard's earnest melancholy. "Ossian, as my mission is well nigh complete, I shall aid thee in yours. If you will, I shall accompany you to Imladris and assure you bed no more wenches along the way. After all, the Forsaken Inn still lies on the road before you."

Ossian caught the wry gleam in the elf's eye and smirked in spite of his sadness. "Yes, I suppose an insufferable elvish chaperone would prove more formidable a barrier to my wanton ways than even an irate husband!"

"Stop usin' 'em big words," Halfviss grumbled in anguish, "yer makin' me head hurt!"

"I am terribly sorry, Halfviss," Ossian replied with a wink, "is there something you wish to say?"

"Aye," the Beorning blurted.

There was a long pause. But when it became obvious that Halfviss had forgotten what it was he wished to add, Ossian shrugged and said to Adurant, "Come, friend, we should be on our way. I believe we have had enough excitement in Bree for one night."

"Take me with you, if'n you please."

Ossian and Adurant stopped in surprise as they were turning to the stables. The meek request had come from the hobbit, Hob, who absently switched his broom from hand to hand.

Ossian disliked hobbits. Too damn cheery and rustic. But neither did he wish to hurt the brave little hobbit's feelings. "Hob," the bard said sympathetically, "the road is long and fraught with danger. I don't doubt your courage, but brooms will not ward off an orc's cruel blade."

"It's just that" - Hob hesitated, swallowing his embarrassment – "a few weeks back, a band o' hobbits up from the Shire came through Bree. Queerest folk you'd ever chance to see, even for hobbits. But never was there a buzz in this ol' town as when they breezed through. Black Riders and Rangers and strange happenings and…well…it just got me to thinking, is all."

"Ah, wanderlust!" Ossian crooned. "The wide world is calling you, is that it, Hob?" The bard patted the hobbits head and smiled. "Believe me; tales told over a pint by the fire are far more thrilling than life on the open road. Stick to tending bar. Be safe and live well until your curly hobbit hair turns snow white."

Hob grimaced at Ossian's patronization and he became defiant. "What do you know of my life?" he howled. "It's always, 'Hob fetch this' and Hob fetch that' and 'Hob clean out the stables'! I own naught but what I have on my back, and nothing to show for my work but calluses on my feet and hands. 'Lazy slowcoach' – that's what I'm called! There's more to life than that. There's got to be!"

One could cut the uneasy silence that ensued with a knife.

"I'll take yer along," Halfviss finally grunted as he came out of his stupor. "I'm a' goin' back ter my long home yonder 'cross the Mistys," the Beorning yawned as he waved vaguely eastward. "Many yearn ago it were that Beorn, sire o' Grimbeorn our chieftain, had a hobbit name o' Baggins at his place. My folk'd welcome yer comin'. Stick wi' me, l'il feller, and nae fear th' road." He winked at the hobbit and grumbled fiercely, "I've et orcneas fer supper!"

Adurant winced in distaste at the mention of Halfviss' bizarre diet. "Yes – well then – table manners aside, it seems we are all headed in the general direction of Imladris. Perhaps you should accompany Ossian and I."

Ossian shook his head and palmed his face. Damnable elvish courtesy had defeated him again. "Certainly, my dear fellows, come along," he agreed half-heartedly. "Seeing as you couldn't part from me when I asked previously in any case."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV: The Stranger was a Ranger – Or, Who can explain this other Dunedain?**

Just when it seemed this convenient convergence of disparate races could not get any stranger (or more implausible, for that matter), the small band of wayfarers espied a hooded shadow lurking by the eastern Breegate. Hob, who had just abruptly ended his employ with Butterbur with a few choice words and a demand for a pony as parting wages, recognized the figure.

"He's one of them there Rangers what comes here ever and awhile," he whispered to Adurant and Ossian. "They've been as thick as flies on a cow's tail in midsummer as of late."

"State your business, and be quick about it," Ossian growled, more irritated at the hobbit's ridiculous aphorism than this cloaked Ranger. But the bard gave the stranger his best scowl for good measure, being unsure if he were, perhaps, a mercenary hired by a certain cuckolded husband.

"My business is my own," the Ranger answered with a stock quasi-medieval epic reply, "and yet our paths are one in the same."

"And pray, how would you know our path, Ranger?" Adurant asked.

"Well, I know that it is an uncommon occurrence for an Elf, such as yourself, to be frequenting the Prancing Pony," the Ranger laughed. "Needless to say, the near-riot outside the inn and the ensuing boisterous conversation was a dead give away."

Ossian was by now quite perturbed – more so than usual. This whole Bree encounter had been an unmitigated fiasco. "I have little faith in spies," the bard barked. "Be on your way, Ranger. Go now in peace and practice your eavesdropping elsewhere." The bard turned quickly to Hob and hissed, "And no Hobbitish jokes about 'dropping the eaves'!"

Hob grimaced and hid behind Halfviss' massive leg as if it were a tree trunk. Hob looked up pensively and hoped the Beorning wouldn't fart. The Hobbit was much relieved when Halfviss emitted a rumbling belch instead. "'Better out than in', as my gammer was wonting to say," Hob said as he patted the giant's knee.

"Come now," the Ranger interrupted, "might I join your stalwart band? It seems that I, too, am heading eastward, as I have an errand to run – my journey takes me to the Last Homely House."

The Ranger lowered his cowl and revealed a dark mop of hair and sea-gray eyes – the hallmarks of his clan. But to Ossian's eyes, the lad could not have passed his twentieth summer, even taking into account the Northern Dunedain's remarkable longevity and their propensity for retaining the attributes of youth long after it was socially decent, particularly in this pre-Dorian Grey era. Nevertheless, a leering Oscar Wilde would be much impressed, even though he would probably consider the current dialogue rather tawdry and pedestrian for his usual scintillating dinner conversation. And no ascots or crushed velvet! He was never one to hold in common the commonality of the commoner…

Ossian roused himself from this odd reverie and cursed under his breath at the anachronistic musings of the narration. Looking down again at the young Ranger from atop his bored steed (which, with equine sensibilities, pawed at the gravel with an anxious hoof as if desiring to be far away from this whole tedious sequence), Ossian merely shrugged. But then, with a devilish glint in his eye, he said to his elvish companion, "What think you, Adurant? Methinks this boy has run away from home. Shall we send him back to his mother?"

Adurant looked the Ranger up and down in his usual skeptical manner (considered rude by some, but elves have always been inconsiderate in their brusqueness). Equally oblivious to Ossian's wit, the elf replied, "Mortals are not my province of study. I know not the cycles of life for you short-lived folk; but, to my eyes, he does seem rather young."

The seemingly affable Ranger suddenly lost his composure to the gibing. "Young I may be, but I have traveled far afield, north and south, east and west, throughout Eriador," he spat angrily. "I have done more in my few years than you have done in twice the time!" But his frown turned to melancholy and he added, "Few are my people in this Age, and it may be that in the days of our greatness, the chieftains of my clan would say the same as you: that I am but a mere stripling youth and not yet full-grown in the ways of the Dúnedain warrior." His shoulders slumped and he concluded, "But my people are few. I am all that could be spared to send dispatches. My elders have all gone to the marches in pursuit of evil. I am but an errand boy."

Adurant glared at Ossian accusingly and Ossian winced at his own contempt. "It would seem," the bard said with a weak smile, "that I shall be in good company then. For you see, I am an errand boy as well, errr - what did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't," the Ranger said with a smirk, "but I am called Malvegil."

"Well, Malvegil," Ossian laughed, "I suggest we take our leave of Bree immediately. Our merry little band is accreting members faster than barnacles on the hull of a ship in the Bay of Belfalas."

"Stop a' usin' 'em damn big words," Halfviss grunted irritably. "Plain talk for plain folk, is wot I says."

"Ah, Halfviss, you must be a member of the _Literate Union_," Ossian replied sardonically.

_~~oo~~OO~~oo~~OO~~oo~~_

As they finally made their way out of Bree and down the Great East-West Road, Ossian divulged the secret of his errand:

"My Lord Faramir, great Captain of Ithilien and son of the Steward of Gondor, has sent me north to gather news of his older brother, Boromir, gone these many weeks from Minas Tirith. For you see, Boromir had a waking dream, full of dark omens, seemingly of great import. And a riddling voice did echo in this troubling dream, saying:

_Seek for the sword that was broken:  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells,  
There shall be shown a token  
That doom is near at hand,  
For Isuldur's bane shall awaken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand._

The intensity of the bard's words caused Adurant to shudder as he mentioned Morgul-spells, and all listened enrapt at the musical tenor of Ossian's rich voice. But Adurant, who had spent a goodly amount of time in Imladris, knew part of the riddle: "The sword that was broken can be none other than Narsil, blade of Isildur the Numenorean. It is housed in the archives of Elrond, Master of Imladris."

"Yes, I thought as much," the bard concurred. "You see, I had been away on an embassy to Umbar, and returned too late to augur the dream. It was Faramir's wish that he should go in his brother's stead, and I would have been his guide, having travelled this way ever and anon. But Boromir, although a courageous warrior, is too headstrong and vain of his own prowess. Boromir may well love his brother, Faramir; but, like his father, Lord Denethor, he discounts Faramir's abilities. A grave mistake by my reckoning, for no finer a leader have I met amongst these, my illustrious patrons."

The bard, realizing he was wandering from the crux of the tale, continued, "Vague recollections do the men of Gondor have of Halflings, but I believe the term refers to the _Periannath_, the Hobbits of the Shire. What think you, Adurant?"

The Sinda thought deeply on the matter, then replied, "Yes, Halflings could relate to Hobbits, but I see not what role they could play in battle - peace-loving gardeners that they are. They certainly carry no magic stronger than Morgul spells!"

"Exactly my thoughts, Adurant," Ossian nodded. "They are fonder of food, drink and gossip than any form of combat."

"Hello!" shouted Hob irritably. "Hobbit here! Don't be a' speakin' ill o' my folk; at least not while I'm in earshot, if you get my meaning. It just aint right!"

Ossian did get Hob's meaning, but he chose to ignore it. "And Isildur's Bane?" the bard continued, "even as a loremaster of Minas Tirith, I cannot fathom that mystery."

"Perhaps Elrond can shed some light on this quandary," Adurant surmised. "He is the wisest of my folk, deep in the lore of the Ages."

"That is my hope as well, my good Elf." Ossian replied. Then, wishing to change the tone of the conversation, he added, "Yet it is many a mile to the Last Homely House, and I wish not to travel long in silence. Pray tell us, one and all, your tales my friends. It shall be our meager entertainment along this haggard, old road."

But Ossian's purpose for being in the north intrigued the young Ranger, Malvegil. The bard was from Gondor, Malvegil thought, and obviously a man of reasonable importance to be sent on such a high errand by his Lord, Faramir. Is he of the _Dúnedain_ as well? He pondered this deeply, for he had heard tales in his home at Fornost of the waning of his race in the south, and the mingling of Numenorean blood with that of lesser men. Perhaps there were none now who could claim direct descent.

Malvegil gathered up his courage and rode alongside Ossian. "As one hailing from Gondor," he said hesitantly, "may you be of the line of the Dunedain of the South? Or is there even now such a folk in your land?"

To Malvegil's surprise, his question evinced a pained look from Ossian. Then the pangs of regret or remorse changed on Ossian's brow to furrowed malevolence, and the bard looked for a moment as if he were going to spit on the young Ranger. But a wan smile at last arched over the frown and he sighed, "I shall forgive your youthful ignorance, Ranger; but alas, such a tale of woe would make even the strongest weep."

The bard turned his head as if unwilling to look upon Malvegil, and he said, "Let us just say I am of near true Numenorean stock. From Dol Amroth my sires first came, but were sent at the bidding of the Stewards to rule over that ever-rebellious lot away south in Umbar. Yet even the benevolent and evenhanded rule of my House could not extinguish the hate these sons of Black Numenor hold for Gondor. Like thieves in the night at last they came, and burned our holdings and killed the household. My father, my mother, my elder brother, were all consigned to the flames, and I spirited away, a mere babe in the arms of my wet nurse."

At this Ossian shrugged. It seemed he had come to grips with his melancholy long ago. "I was fostered by some distant kinfolk – distant, in that they kept their distance! - and at the age of ten I was apprenticed to the Grand Loremaster of the Great Archives in Minas Tirith. The rest, as they say, is history. I reached Loremaster status at a very early age, and my prowess with the lute and my singing voice ingratiated me into the circles of power of Gondor. Finally, I was named bard of the lordly House of Stewards. And so here I am: a landless lord with lilt and lute, a reckless rover of ill-repute!"

Ossian laughed aloud, slapped Malvegil on the back, and began singing a bawdy sea chantey he had picked up sometime before in the quayside taverns of Pelargir. Adurant was not amused.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V: On the Road Again… **

**(Hey, where else can one get a Willie Nelson allusion in a Lord of the Rings fan-fic?)**

Adurant did not take too kindly to Ossian's bawdy sea chantey. Elves are, by nature, strictly missionary and dogmatically procreative in regards to their sexual proclivities, so Adurant was rather taken aback by the Gondorion bard's penchant for perversity and profanity. Of course, Ossian was well aware of the Elves' straight-laced, buttoned-down and buttoned-up prudery; therefore, he improvised several more saucy stanzas to annoy Adurant. Adurant retaliated by being aloof. Unfortunately, the other members of the band took Adurant's aloofness for stereotypical Elven haughtiness and ignored him as well. And thus, the company of travelers reflected in microcosm the political strife of Middle-earth. All except for that racy sex stuff.

Halfviss, the only traveler without a horse or pony, had kept up quite well with the riders for many hours, plodding and puffing along in his awkward ursine lope; but at last, the Beorning grunted in exhaustion (grunts, it would seem, with various inflections and intonations, made up the majority of his limited vocabulary). "T'aint steppin' nae 'nother foot, says I," Halfviss grumbled loudly when his grunt did not produce the desired effect. "Needs food an' rest. We stops here."

Hob, who had remained reticent through much of the trip (although he had become quite good at translating Halfviss' animistic utterances, and would one day write a book on Beorning Gruntology), perked up appreciably at the mention of food. "Yes, by all means," the Hobbit chirped cheerfully, "it's way past dinner, in any case."

Malvegil, the young Ranger, was hungry as well, but too proud to admit it. Yet he leapt off his horse in search of kindling with such gustatory anticipation that his elders, Adurant and Ossian, took notice and smiled at each other. "Well, I suppose this spot is as good as any to make camp," Ossian sighed.

"Yet we have many miles to go, my friend," Adurant admonished, "and we still have at least an hour 'til sunset."

"And whose idea was it to invite such an expansive company on our journey, my dear Elf?" Ossian replied curtly, recalling the kindly Elf's irksome courtesy.

"Point well taken," Adurant said with a dismissive shrug to ward off the bard's sarcasm. "I suppose we shall just have to adapt to our newfound companions' eating and sleeping habits. But I warn thee, bard, this shall delay our obligatory fantasy combat sequence!" The Elf tapped the pommel of his sword and added, "It has been nearly two chapters since we have seen any action."

"Has it been that long?" Ossian mumbled in a mixture of dismay and disbelief. "And even that was rather limited action, if I recall correctly."

"Aye," Adurant intoned gravely. "Truth to tell, one reviewer has already commented that the story was off to a bit of a slow start."

"Damnable critics!" Ossian spat.

"But it is not the critics' fault that the story lacks an appropriate amount of violence. After all, that is what sells amongst you mortals."

"We could always slay the Hobbit…"

"Ossian!"

"I jest," the bard countered with a wry smile. "I am sure things shall be picking up soon, friend Elf. These linear epic tales have a way of dropping in unexpected dramatic moments. Let the tension build, dear Adurant, and hang the critics in the meantime!"

The Elf shrugged and grumbled, "There is about as much dramatic tension in this tale as a bathroom scene in _Portnoy's Complaint_."

And so, the disgruntled Elf and the bard joined the others around a campfire that Malvegil and Halfviss had already coaxed to a roaring blaze, and upon which Hob was already frying sausages and 'taters he had purloined from Butterbur's pantry. And for each link he plopped onto the skillet, the Hobbit hummed in delight:

"_One for no sick-days,_  
_Two for no tardies,_  
_Three for no overtime _  
_Caterin' yer parties!_

_Four for no holidays,_  
_Five for dishwater,_  
_Six for no union scale_  
_Wi' no rise every quarter!"_

Halfviss greedily tried to grasp some meat with his greasy fingers, but he was no match for Hob, who angrily swatted the great oaf's hand with his spatula. Realizing he had perhaps offended the lumbering giant, Hob glared up defiantly at the frowning Beorning and snapped unapologetically, "You just leave the cooking to me, Halfviss. You'll get your'n when it's done!"

Ossian laughed aloud and patted Halfviss conciliatorily on his expansive back. "Never come between a Hobbit and his meal, Halfviss. The Halflings may be short of stature, but they are quite fierce when it comes to their sausages!"

Halfviss smirked and licked the grease dripping from the back of his immense hand. But Hob's sudden spatula strike had its intended effect: the Beorning did indeed wait a bit more patiently for his dinner.

**~~oo~~OO~~oo~~OO~~oo~~**

After an uneventful evening under the brooding presence of Weathertop and the Weather Hills blanketed in a somnolent shroud in the murky distance, the company set off once again in search of the obligatory but elusive fantasy combat sequence. After two days ride and no dramatic tension to speak of, save perhaps the putrefying effects of sausages on the Beorning's gastrointestinal tract (which would plague the riders at intervals throughout their harrowing trek), the travelers came in sight of the Last Bridge across the River Hoarwell…

"That would be the _Mitheithel_," Adurant corrected.

In either case, whether one uses the Westron or Sindarin title, the riders crossed the bridge without incident, although the Halfling Hob needed additional proofs and assurances that the structure of the old span was indeed stable enough to support their crossing and that assistance was readily at hand in case the hydrophobic Hobbit should tumble in and get 'drownded'. But when logical debate and Ossian angrily jumping up and down in the middle of the span still did not allay Hob's fear, Halfviss merely grunted, scooped up the addled Hobbit and carried him across.

"Well, that weren't so bad, then," Hob mumbled as he dabbed his fevered brow with a handkerchief.

"We must be very careful on this final leg of the journey," Adurant said ominously. "We have at least another day's ride to the Ford of Bruinen and Imladris beyond; it would do well for us to stay clear of the forests to the north."

Hob, still not quite over his traumatic river crossing, gazed warily at the Elf and said, "Why? There aint no more bridges about, is there?"

Adurant smiled at the Hobbit's lack of geographical reference, but became more serious when he replied, "No, my little friend, there are no bridges. Those grim woods are known as the Trollshaws, and further north, the Ettenmoors."

As if on cue, Hob's pony whinnied and reared, sending poor Hob nearly out of his skin. "Errr – did you says somethin' or other 'bout Trolls?" the Hobbit peeped.

"Yes, I am afraid to say I did mention them," the Elf replied. "The Trollshaws and the Ettenmoors are the traditional range of those loathsome creatures."

Hob became circumspect. After much consideration, he finally asked, "And what then is an Etten?"

"An Etten is a Troll," Ossian replied. "_Eoten_ being the variant for Troll in the language of the _Éothed, _forefathers of the Rohirrim."

The Hobbit cocked an incredulous eyebrow. He had heard tell of such mythical beasts back in Bree. Big as houses and could eat a flock of sheep at one sitting, if he recollected correctly. But those were just tales to scare naughty Hobbit lads and lasses from straying too close to bridges. "So…," he drawled whimsically, "it don't matter if you get 'et by an Etten or a Troll, cos' gettin' ettin' by an Etten, I'm bettin', is one in the same as if yer game for a Troll."

"Droll," Ossian grinned, "and yet to the point. But Hob, you seem to disregard our peril. Could it be that the Halfling race is fearless of such imminent threats as Trolls, yet quake in the wake of water?"

"I knowed of a cousin who drownded once," Hob scoffed, "yet I aint never had no relations get 'et by Ettens!"

"Trolls is ign'ant," Halfviss said offhandedly. "Ne'er heard a' one as could bark out more'n a word or three. But they be a hard handful in close fightin', says I."

The company all stared at the Beorning for a moment and Hob suddenly got the sinking feeling that, perhaps, he best jest less and stick as close as possible to the blustering Beorning. Then came the rain.

The rain was so torrential that the path soon became a muddy morass and the horses slipped and slid through the muck and mire. The company dismounted and, hour upon hour, led their downcast steeds through the stinging storm as the ground inclined sharply to meet the mounting foothills, the tumbled building blocks of the looming Misty Mountains…

"_Hithaeglir_," Adurant interrupted.

"Must you always do that?" Ossian griped.

"Hark!" Malvegil piped in. "Did you hear that?"

Adurant glared at the young Dúnadan as if the effrontery of a mortal hearing something before a Sinda was preposterous. "I hear nothing," the Elf replied.

"I could swear I heard a faint call off to our left a ways," Malvegil continued obstinately.

Adurant peered northward and repeated, "I hear nothing. You are hearing things; it is only the wild wind in the trees."

After a moment, Halfviss perked up his ear and cocked his head like a dog at the doorway. "Ter boy be nae short o' hearin'," the Beorning whispered. "I do hear a rumpus a' brewin'."

Adurant was unsure of the meaning of 'rumpus', but even he now had to grudgingly admit that there was a commotion somewhere in the woods to the north and distant cries of dismay. He nodded in recognition to Malvegil and said, "Perhaps we should go hence and investigate."

"Perhaps we should stay on the path and mind our own business," Ossian grumbled. But the bard knew well that once the Elf has his mind set on something, there was little Ossian could do to dissuade him. "Very well," the bard sighed resignedly before Adurant could protest, "but the boy and the Hobbit should stay here and guard the horses."

This course of action suited Hob quite well, but Mavegil took offense, particularly being referred to as a 'boy' by both Ossian and Halfviss. "I am no stablehand to be bade stay or leave," Malvegil snapped indignantly, "I am a…"

"Yes, yes – you are a Ranger of the _Dúnedain_," Ossian growled. "And you shall do as you are told while in my company! We can ill-afford to lose the horses while we all traipse off into the forest on one of the Elf's harebrained rescue missions."

Malvegil bowed his head, swallowed his pride and guided the horses to the shelter of a nearby copse of trees, while Ossian, Halfviss and Adurant ran into the treacherous woods. "What exactly do you mean by 'harebrained'?" Malvegil heard Adurant ask Ossian as they disappeared beneath the dense forest eaves.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI: Canon Fodder**

**(or, Everything and the Kitchen Sink!)**

In the waning years of the Third Age of Middle-earth, things were not good; in fact, they were quite ungood, unwell, and just plain bad. The Dark Lord Sauron, a rather unpleasant divinity with a penchant for cruelty and a lust for domination, had risen once again (the term 'comeback' was originally ascribed to Sauron 'coming back' to Mordor on multiple occasions in an attempt to conquer Arda - that is, the world as we know it). The old alliances among the Free Peoples of the West, the Elves, Dwarves and Men, had been in decline for some time, and it was considered with trepidation among the wise that Sauron would eventually engulf the West with its patchwork of petty kings, little lords and smallish stewards bit by bit as a ravening wolf might gorge on pieces of meat ripped from a prone carcass.

But as the old saying goes, perhaps Sauron's 'eye was bigger than his stomach'; for while the Dark Lord slathered over the slabs of fat and juicy ribs ripe for the taking, there were nasty bits of indigestible gristle - tough and sinewy opponents with resistance bred in their marrow. These did not sit well on the Dark Lord's dainty palate, causing him much indigestion and sleepless nights (although, I am not quite sure Sauron did much sleeping anyway, what with a lidless eye and all). But to say that Sauron's eye was fixed in one direction (that is, westward) regarding his precious missing Ring is an error of the gravest magnitude, and is a mistake on the part of Gondorion chroniclers (mewling sycophants, one and all), who relied on the word of simple Hobbits. These hapless Halfling folk had the merest inkling of the wide world and the struggles that occurred outside of their ken; in fact, mention of the lands east of the Misty Mountains during the War of the Ring barely merits a paltry page in the annals of Minas Tirith.

Now, much of the existing lore of that time did indeed concern the stalwart Hobbits, their intrepid Fellowship and the eventual destruction of the One Ring. Yes, we know they did have a hand in Sauron's destruction, but seriously, were they really, like, all that? I mean, think about it, these were a few half-pint neophytes blundering about like naïve innocents, trusting in the goodwill of their betters and relying on blind luck to see them through. Obviously, Frodo failed miserably in his mission, but that fact was blithely glossed over in a wave of sentiment and relief when the shortsighted Sauron, through his own stupidity, bungled the War of the Ring. And all that wonderfully wrought evil was lost forever in a wrathful wisp of smoke. Drat.

But there is, of course, more to the story. It was not, as legend would have it, just the Hobbits who saved the day. Admittedly, from the point of casting a yarn or embellishing a fable, there is no better moral for the story than having the meek rattling the thrones of the powerful, or the greatest being laid low by the least (it is so egalitarian and nauseatingly democratic). However, there is another tradition, one not so bound by storytelling convention. Truthfully, the Great and the Wise, embarrassed and unwilling to soil the sanctified memory of an epic of such grandeur, had nervously attempted to keep the tale hushed up (much like one would their drunken idiot brother making an ass of himself at Sunday dinner). And yet the truth, shining like a beacon in the fog, cuts through the murk and mist, and leaves the blemishes – the goiters, blackheads and moles – as clear as the nose on one's face (or, more precisely, the pimple protruding from one's proboscis).

This is the story of those very blemishes who, regarded as unsightly and needing to be completely done away with (or at least hidden away for appearance's sake), burst forth in a blaze of glory, their passions erupting, their blistering rage burgeoning forth, and in the end, their seemingly monumental mission accomplished, they receded back into the shadows where they began, and their unlikely (but grammatically impressive) tale was lost to the ages. What they gained and what they lost was a mystery up to this point, and there are folks who wisely claim that some mysteries should never be solved; perhaps this is one of those.

"That…that is diabolical!" Ossian gasped.

"Wha's tha'?" Halfviss grunted obliviously.

"The errant narration," Ossian replied. "No one would ever expect the prologue to end up in Chapter Six!"

"Nae, wha's diabolical mean?" Halfviss countered with continued incognizance.

"Never mind all that!" Adurant growled with an uncharacteristic lack of Elvish patience. "I believe the cries and sound of metal clashing is coming from the clearing just beyond these trees."

Suddenly, they heard a great thud, the blunt sound of a heavy impact, and an injured Dwarf came soaring over the bushes, landing in a crumpled heap at their feet.

"I have heard of Balrogs having wings, but I didn't know Dwarves could fly," Ossian joked.

"Ossian, please be serious!" Adurant admonished with a curt whisper. "But quickly! Let us see what this is all about!"

As the three travelers entered the clearing, they were astonished to see a monstrous Troll in heated battle with a small band of Dwarves. Two of the Dwarves were on either of the Troll's flanks, waiting for a chance to slash with their axes at the maddened beast's exposed legs or back; but the Troll kept them at bay with furious swings of his massive arms, like gnarled boughs of a great, gray oak. Yet the Troll's attention was more focused on an odd Dwarf that stood implacably before the creature, valiantly protecting a wounded comrade groaning at his feet. Tall this Dwarf was, unusually so, and his wispy beard barely covered his face. In his long travels, Ossian had seen Dwarf females with better beards.

Halfviss, never one to consider consequences (or battle tactics, for that matter), reverted to the berserker hallmarks of the Beorning race and attacked the Troll with an inhuman growl, burying his axe in the brute's arm. The Troll howled in fury and smote Halfviss with a massive fist to the Beorning's chest. Halfviss stumbled backward, winded and woozy, but he did not fall; instead, he grunted. Ossian took this grunt to be one of satisfaction, a matter of pride that Halfviss had been able to remain on his feet. In the meantime, Adurant had joined the fray as well; smiting the Troll on the same wounded arm that Halfviss had hacked. Now great gouts of black blood ran in dark rivulets through the slick grass, dispersing in ghastly pools as the rain continued.

Ossian cried out, "For Gondor!" and leapt upon the Troll's back. The befuddled Troll, his right arm now hanging limply at his side, tried vainly to throw the bard with its left hand, but the tall Dwarf, seeing Ossian's selfless act, countered quickly and swung his axe into the Troll's unprotected knee, which cracked with a sickening sound. As the Troll shrieked in agony and instinctively reached downward, Ossian wasted no time, stabbing his dagger clear up to the hilt into the beast's eye-socket. The Troll staggered and stumbled, but in a final fury managed to throw Ossian like a ragdoll halfway across the clearing. While the Troll was thus engaged, Halfviss, like some charging bull, ran full force into the stony beast and tackled it. The Dwarves and Adurant then made short work of the fallen behemoth with axes and sword.

Ossian awoke to find himself cradled in Adurant's embrace. "This…is…not…how I wish to be remembered," the bard croaked in revulsion.

"Speak not of death, foolish bard," the Elf laughed, "you have only been unconscious a few moments. But come, Sir Sluggard, can you get to your feet?"

Ossian took a deep, gasping breath and, with the help of Adurant and Halfviss, managed to rise shakily to his feet.

"That was quite a brave feat you performed, Ossian," Adurant said with a twinkle in his eye, "I would not have thought you had such valor in you."

"Yes, well, even I amaze myself sometimes," the bard wheezed, still shaken from his heavy landing. Ossian saw the prone hulk of the dead Troll on the far side of the glen and shrugged. "At the least, we all got out of this fight alive."

There was a wail in the distance and the band of Dwarves who were huddled about their fallen kinsman cried, "Eikinskjaldi! Eikinskjaldi! Thou art dead!"

"Say not a word, bard!" Adurant barked at Ossian.

Ossian, for his part, held his tongue.

The odd, tall Dwarf left his comrades and bowed deeply before the three travelers. "Eikinskjaldi is dead," he said mournfully, "but I and my kinsmen are forever in your debt. It is a rare thing in these days of mistrust and hidden hatreds to find strangers aiding we Dwarves in so bravely a manner."

"Amarthanuin, is that you?" Adurant intoned gravely.

The Dwarf seemed shaken at the Elf's words. "You…you are mistaken, Elf," the Dwarf spat angrily, "I am Nyrath, son of Nyr."

"Nay, I know thee," Adurant replied forcefully. "You are Amarthanuin of Menegroth. I knew your grandfather, the Sinda Bregalad."

"Sinda?" Ossian puzzled, scratching his head. "But this is…a…Dwarf?"

"Dwelf," Adurant replied.

"Dwelf?" Ossian was now totally flummoxed.

He who had named himself Nyrath son of Nyr glared at Adurant and then at Ossian. "You…you are mistaken," he sputtered, and without another he word, he stomped off to join his comrades.

"What the…" Ossian grumbled, but Adurant cut him off.

"He is a Dwelf, Ossian, an abomination," the Elf hissed. "He was born of the illicit union of Dwarf and Elf!"

"Such things happen?"

"Rarely, if at all," Adurant seethed.

"But, I've never heard of such a ridiculous thing!" Ossian countered, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

"Say not ridiculous, my friend, but rather blasphemous."

"I sense a story coming on," Ossian said in anticipation of a new tale to add to his bardic arsenal.

Adurant sighed, but then complied: "His mother had never named him; she died of grief at his birth. His grandfather, who was to die shortly afterward in one of the terrible sacks of Menegroth, had been either clever or cruel, for he named the newborn orphan _Amarthanuin_. Now, depending on one's translation of Sindarin, the name could mean 'under a doom'; however, many of the elders of my race came to the unsettling conclusion that this epithet meant 'doomed to be under' - or perhaps more aptly, 'fated to be less'."

"As in short - or Dwarvish?" Ossian asked with a hint of a smirk.

"Precisely," Adurant muttered indignantly. "He should not have been born at all."

"But how? When?" Ossian's mind could not take it all in. "Who…who was his father?"

"His father, unknown and unlamented, has been dead these last two Ages of Arda," Adurant said bitterly. "Perhaps he was trampled under the powerful, plodding steps of the Onodrim on the bloody shores of the River Ascar, or perhaps it was Beren himself who slew him in righteous vengeance for the murder of innocent Elves in Doriath. I know not."

"Then, how in the name of Eru…"

"Ossian," Adurant stated forcefully, unwilling to discuss the matter further, "Doriath was sacked by Dwarves. Rape and pillage follow in the wake of such horrible events. I shall say no more."

"Ah," was all Ossian could muster.

"I hunger right fearful," Halfviss grunted, having missed the entire conversation.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII: Where Dwells the Dwelf, Now that He's Beside Himself?**

Elves, much like their counterparts the doughty Dwarves ('doughty' being the required adjective for the Naugrim), are beings that never let sleeping dogs lie. They are always rummaging about for obscure truths and arcanum, always searching for secrets in the shadows, always kicking a hornets' nest and then innocently disavowing the furor they have caused while someone else mops up the mess in the wretched aftermath. Naturally, Adurant felt compelled to continue his questioning of Amarthanuin, or as the Dwelf preferred to be called, Nyrath son of Nyr.

"Amarthanuin," Adurant said forcefully as he walked up to the small band of Dwarves grieving over their fallen comrade, "I would have words with you."

The Dwelf's shoulders sagged in resignation. There was nowhere he could hide now. What were the chances that he would blunder upon a Sinda from Menegroth in this latter age of Middle-earth? Nyrath (for that is now who he chose to be in his own mind) sadly motioned Adurant away from his Dwarvish brethren, and then when they were out of earshot, he replied in an angry whisper, "What is it you would have of me, Sinda? You and your haughty kindred reviled me and cast me out! I received naught but sneers and mockery in Menegroth, but among the Dwarves I am accepted for whom I am – not for who I am not!"

The ever-inquisitive Ossian, who had accompanied Adurant, was going to mention the unwieldy nature of the double negative in Nyrath's last phrase, but thought better of it; instead, it was Adurant who answered, "Your recollection is clouded, Amarth. You were not 'cast out' of Doriath as you imply. We Elves…bore the burden of your presence. We accepted that what was done could not be undone."

Nyrath's face became twisted with rage. "You - you bore the burden?" he spat. "Would you listen to yourself – even now your chosen words cannot hide the scorn! I was ever an abomination in your eyes. And if I was not met with outright hostility by the Sindar, then I was ignored with grave silence!"

"He does have a point, dear Adurant," Ossian said, trying vainly for amelioration. "Your own words seem the bear that out."

Adurant shot an angry glance at the bard, not so much because Ossian was perhaps right, but more so because an Elf had been upbraided by a mortal. Yet Adurant was not as haughty as all that. He was actually a very sensitive soul who was also fiercely protective of his Sindarin lineage and their legacy. He would suffer no one to speak ill of his kindred. However, he attempted to look at things in the way Amarthanuin might see them, and his long Elvish memory recalled some rather unsavory incidences from the dim past that may be construed as being detrimental to the Dwelf.

"It was a difficult time," Adurant mumbled in stumbling apologetics, more to himself than to Nyrath, "and the Dwarves murdered Elu Thingol, our king. Our cities were sacked and destroyed. There was so much death. So much…hatred."

"And your queen, Melian the Maia, fled Doriath forever, thus releasing the Elvish enclave from the protective girdle of her power, and dooming the fenced land to eventual destruction!" Ossian said, quite pleased with himself for remembering a pertinent piece of Sindarin history. But the stony stares of both Adurant and Nyrath led the bard to believe that his timely bit of trivia was perhaps not wanted at this juncture. "Well, at least, that is what I have read," the bard added with chagrin.

Adurant sighed in annoyance, but he finally met the gaze of Nyrath (the Elf suddenly realized he had not looked directly at the Dwelf during the whole conversation). "Come, Amarth – I mean, Nyrath," Adurant said finally, "we should attend to your fallen comrade. We have pack animals just outside these woods. If you would accompany us to Imladris, we can assure your friend a proper burial."

"He shall be buried here, on the spot he was slain," Nyrath replied bluntly. "No Dwarf would deign to be buried in Elvish lands." Then, considering that he might have spoken a bit harshly, the Dwelf softened his stance and said, "But your offer is appreciated. We shall accompany you to Imladris, if we may, as that is where we were heading before losing our way in the rain."

Ossian, realizing that this was about as close to apologizing as Adurant would get, and that Nyrath had also made some accommodation for the Elf, quickly seconded the motion. "Then prithee, let us bury the noble dead with all due honor!" Ossian cried in a fit of minstrelsy. Then the bard thought of the toil and dirty digging involved and wisely continued, "But let us haste, my friends, for this dark wood holds much ill will. Whilst you dig the mournful grave and raise the burial mound, I shall go hence, prepare the horses, and speak to Malvegil and Hob of all that has befallen here. I am sure they are beyond worry at this point."

Nyrath bowed to Ossian and thanked him for his kind consideration.

"It is the least I can do," Ossian replied while bowing in turn.

Fortunately, it had stopped raining and the saturated ground was forgiving. Adurant left Nyrath and his brethren, Dolgthrasir, Skirfir and Skafith, to perform their strange Dwarvish rites over the body of the dead Eikinskjaldi. Besides, the Elf cared little for naming conventions drawn from the _Völuspá,_ which was more of a Dwarven affectation.

Backtracking through the forest and out again to the sodden road, Adurant came upon his traveling companions and found them doing what mortals do most regularly: eating. Halfviss had his hand (and most of his beard) in a great bowl of stew, and Hob the Hobbit sat next to the Beorning devouring a similar bowl of the savory concoction, save that he used a spoon in place of his hands (if anything, Adurant found that Hob had acceptable table manners). Ossian and the young ranger, Mavelgil, stood with the horses, but they, too, were busily sopping up gravy with great hunks of bread. They offered Adurant a bowl as well, but he politely refused, having lost his appetite.

Soon, the somber Dwarves exited the wood and they declined dinner as well, more interested now in reaching their destination than eating. And so, without further ado, the now veritable horde of characters stomped, trotted or rode off to the hidden vale of Imladris.

**~~oo~~OO~~oo~~OO~~o~~**

"Arien Gwilwileth, you simply cannot use the statuary for archery practice!" The older Elf was furious. "Erestor has complained to me that you chipped the nose right off the head of Isildur the Numenorean!"

Arien knew her father was angry because he had used her full name, but she couldn't help herself. "Oh ada, that was a magnificent shot!" the young Elf proclaimed proudly. "I was at least a hundred paces away on the far side of the garden, and I got him right through the nostrils!"

Arien's father, Angwedh, chief smith of the Armory of Imladris, was not at all proud, or amused. He did not take kindly to the other smiths jokingly referring to his youngest daughter as _Emeldîr_, or 'man-hearted', nor did he particularly care to meet Erestor in his administrative capacity. "Arien," he growled through clenched teeth, "I know I promised your mother that I would allow you space to grow in whatever direction your inclinations took you. She knew that you would be different from the others..."

Angwedh paused as he recalled Merilin's voice. For good reason she was named after the nightingale. It wasn't the words she said that pleased him so; rather it was the sound of her spoken word. She would often sing him to sleep.

"You were saying, ada?" Arien interrupted impatiently.

Angwedh glared at his daughter. Just as Merilin was a nightingale, so too was Arien like her namesake, with a sunny disposition and warm smile on the long, summer days when she could frolic along the forest paths or amid the rushes along the river; but she was also hot and stubborn, unrelenting in her willfulness and quick to anger. One day, she would make any Elf that married her miserable.

Knowing he was in for an argument, Angwedh plunged forward anyway. "Arien, between the library and the forest, you uselessly fritter away time that would be better served here. At home. Where you belong."

Arien stood silently, almost dutifully before her father. It is an act, he thought. This only made him angrier.

"You are not of the _Faradrim_, the hunter's guild, and neither will you be a loremaster..."

"But, ada, it is said that Galadriel could hurl a spear further than any other elf in Valinor, and her knowledge is deep and her wisdom unsurpassed, save perhaps for Master Elrond."

Angwedh raised his finger to quiet his daughter, and continued, "…therefore, I forbid you to use bow and arrow any further. You are to be a handmaiden of the Lady Arwen, which is a high honor for our house. It would do well for you to put aside hunting, and your other studies as well, for something more…ladylike."

Arien remained silent, but Angwedh knew that this was just the calm before the storm. He could see the fury stirring in her dark eyes. "Be more ladylike?" she asked with uncharacteristic calm. "Like Lady Arwen, perhaps?"

Angwedh could sense that he was stepping into a trap, but he could not stop the ambush. "Yes," he blurted as he felt the noose lower over his head, "like Lady Arwen."

"Ah, very well then," she replied with a shrug and began to walk away.

Angwedh was flummoxed at this unexpected turn of events. "Then you will forego hunting?" he said in confusion. "And you will put aside your books and scrolls and not spend countless hours studying in the archives?"

"Certainly father," Arien said as she opened the door.

She called me 'father' and not 'ada' - this was not good, Angwedh thought. "And just where are you going, Arien?"

"It is said a mortal bard from Gondor is newly arrived in Imladris today. I am going to meet him."

"A mortal bard?" Angwedh grumbled. "Why the interest in a mortal?"

"Well, you did say I should be more like Arwen," Arien said with a sly smirk, and then closed the door behind her.

Angwedh sat there for a moment, perplexed. Then a sudden shock of realization caused him to bolt upright from his chair, and he ran out the door after his petulant daughter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter VIII: Tra-La-La-Lalley, Bureaucracy in the Valley**

Erestor well understood the policies behind Master Elrond's stubborn insistence on having Imladris retain its status as a Free City open to all and sundry Free Peoples of Arda. The quaint notion of the "Last Homely House" remaining available as a waymeet for tired travelers, frontier diplomats and Aftercomer allies certainly had a folksy appeal. But maintaining the homespun façade had begun to wear thin after an Age or more for the disgruntled Noldo, for it was Erestor, in his capacity as Administrative Counsel, upon whom the responsibility wholly rested. "No, not Elrond, that blasted Mudblood!" Erestor said aloud. "So bleedin' wise! So bloody 'umble! Naught but a bloomin' figger 'ead, 'ee is!"

Erestor coughed and shivered violently in an effort to clear his troubled mind. He may have been annoyed at Elrond, but he was equally irked at the narrator, who had him reverting to a Cockney accent and making allusions to Harry Potter. Oh, If only Tolkien had been of the immortal Elven race and not a mere sickly muggle! Erestor cursed in ancient Quenyan and spat. "He's done it again!" the Noldo hissed, referring, of course, to me, the omniscient and obviously irritating narrator of this piece.

"Do you mind?" Elrond said indignantly as he strode forcefully into the antechamber, a rather garish room festooned with tacky chintz draperies, walls and ceiling dripping in baroque ornamentation, and fuzzy pillows strewn about the chartreuse shag carpeted floor. "Please go piss on the fourth wall elsewhere," the Master of Imladris growled. "Don't you have some failed Monty Python spoof to haunt?"

Erestor and Elrond stood quietly for a while in the middle of the room, one cautiously eyeing the other, and then both gazing warily about the room. When the Elves were satisfied that the errant narration had finally subsided, Elrond heaved a sigh of relief and slumped into an ornately carved oaken chair next to a massive trestle table. Unable to find a seat, Erestor sat on a large, fuzzy pillow. Trying his best to look dignified while sitting on the floor, the Noldo tried to shift his legs gracefully but snagged his boot on the shag loop, which stubbornly held him fast.

"See to it that maintenance redecorates this antechamber," Elrond grumbled as he watched his counselor struggle. "It will just not do in its current state of...of…"

"I shall do so presently, my lord," Erestor replied quickly with an embarrassed nod.

"It is the third room this week!" Elrond cried, throwing up his hands.

"I know, my lord," Erestor said while biting his lip in vexation, "but such are the tales they write about Middle-earth these days."

Elrond shook his head sadly and opined, "Ah, to be free of the vagrant whims of fan-fiction, old friend. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished."

"At least you are quoting the Bard of Avon!" Erestor cried. "Why, just moments before you entered the room, I was speaking like Eliza Doolittle!"

Elrond shuddered in revulsion. "Well, before we shuffle off this mortal coil, let us pause," Elrond sighed resignedly, "and take stock of our situation."

"Another statue was destroyed this morning, my lord."

"What, besides Isildur's nostrils?"

"Aye, my lord, at Gilraen's memorial…"

"Aragorn's sainted mother? Good lord! What now?"

"Knocked her head clean off with a battle axe."

"That vixen elleth is a menace, I tell you!"

"I had spoken to her father, the armorer Angwedh, but that was before we found the decapitated head."

"Mark my words; the Dunedain will not like this. They get so pissy about such things. Short lives, but long memories. Perhaps we can blame it on a sudden Orc attack…"

"Angwedh assures me that he shall keep his daughter, Arien, under better control."

"And yet heads are rolling!"

"Aye, my lord."

Elrond made a face like he had just French-kissed a Troll. "Go on. What else?"

"The newly arrived band of travelers, my lord."

"Ah yes, the odd group with the Gondorion bard seeking Boromir. Have you spoken with him yet?"

"I interviewed him briefly, my lord," Erestor said with as much distaste as a Noldo could muster. "Frankly, it is no wonder Gondor is losing the war to Mordor."

"They just don't make Dunedain like they used to."

"No, my lord, that they do not."

"And who else is in the group – anyone of interest?"

"There is a Sinda named Adurant, one of Cirdan's folk."

"Hmmm…Adurant. Sounds familiar. Is he from Menegroth, perhaps?

"I wouldn't know, my lord. We Noldor don't associate with the Sindar."

"Right, right. A matter of social status. One would think that you would have gotten over it in the last several thousand years, but do not get me started on that. Anyone else?"

Well, there is a Beorning…"

"Messy eaters. We will have to put him at the far end of the dinner table. Go on –"

"A Hobbit…"

"Another Hobbit! My, for such timid folk, they certainly get out and about a lot more as of late."

"A clutch of Dwarves…"

"A clutch of Dwarves? Is that more or less than a brace of Dwarves?"

"More than a brace, my lord. There is also a young Dunedain ranger…"

"Erestor, it seems to me you are holding something back. You are not your usual chatty self."

"Yes, my lord – I mean, no, my lord."

"Come, come – out with it! It can't be all that bad!"

"There is a Dwelf, my lord."

"A what?"

"A Dwelf."

"A what?"

"A creature spawned from the illicit union of an Elf and a Dwarf, my lord."

"Such things exist?"

"In fan-fiction, anything is possible."

"Oh, this will not do. No, it will not do at all!" Shaken, Elrond rose from his chair and began pacing upon the shag carpeting, which only fueled his anxiety. "We are already down in the polls, Erestor," Elrond mumbled nervously. "That insufferable Glorfindel is already chomping at the bit in search of more power."

"Aye, he has grown quite popular, my lord."

"O-o-o-o-h, look at me! I killed a Balrog. Bask in my glory!"

"It was quite a feat…"

"He pushed the damn thing off a cliff and fell with it – where is the prowess in that?"

"Well, the Valar did send him back…"

"Yes, to make my life miserable. Glorfindel the Golden, always preening his platinum locks and puttering with his pristine plaits."

"Well, there are... other options, my lord," Erestor said slowly, as if mulling over an idea.

Elrond smiled. "You Noldorin bastard, what have you got up your sleeve? Sometimes I could swear you are actually a Dark Elf with your dastardly plots."

"Do you recall that discussion we had in regards to creating a diversion for the Fellowship?"

"Ah, yes, the Fellowship - and that cursed Ring. Unfortunate fools…"

"It seems to me that we could choose nine members out of the motley crew that has just arrived…"

"…and send them on a quest!" Elrond finished the sentence with a delighted clap of his hands.

"We could rush them off before the rest of Imladris knows they are here!"

"And we shall have no further statuary destroyed as well!"

Erestor shot a puzzled glance at the Master of Imladris. "Beg pardon?"

"We can send Arien off as one of the faux-Fellowship!"

"My…my lord," Erestor sputtered, "such a thing isn't done! The Noldor do not send their maidens out to battle."

"Nonsense!" Elrond countered. "Where in the _Laws and Customs of the Eldar_ does it state that an Elf-maid cannot go on a quest? She is unmarried, is she not?

"Yes, my lord."

"And she is without child?"

"There is no lembas in the oven, my lord."

"And, as you have seen yourself, she is quite adept at weaponry, is that not so?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And she is a would-be loremaster to boot. She's always pilfering scrolls from my archive."

Erestor was well versed in the harsh expediencies of administration, but he did not care for this idea at all. Whether or not Arien was a nuisance, she was of the Noldor, after all. "What about Angwedh, the girl's father?" a triumphant Erestor said at last. "Certainly he would object."

Elrond was stumped for a great long while. But suddenly the clouds of uncertainty lifted from his troubled brow and he was virtually beaming. "Angwedh is of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain – one of Celebrimbor's folk - is he not?"

"Why, yes, I believe he is, my lord. He is a master craftsman."

"Then I shall bestow upon him an honor he can't refuse," Elrond continued with a line that predated Brando by several Ages. "He shall be the smith that reforges the shards of Narsil into Anduril, the Flame of the West. The Gwaith just eat that kind of thing up!"

Erestor might not like the concept in principle, but he appreciated the chicanery, the subterfuge, the out-and-out devilry of the deception. It was an administrator's dream. With a sly grin, he replied, "And who is the Dark Elf now, my lord?"

Flushed with victory, Elrond sat back in his chair and pondered further. "Now, all we require is a plausible diversion to send our hapless Fellowship out on."

"Why don't we save it for the next chapter, my lord? All this plotting has wearied me."

"Very well, we shall commence planning in the next chapter."

"Will that be all, my lord?"

"No. Have the maintenance crew install the cheap drapery and the shag carpeting in Glorfindel's bedchamber. Throw in the fuzzy pillows as well."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter IX: The Quest in Pursuit of Assigning an Enterprising Mission**

For all their machinations, Elrond and Erestor were not inherently evil, or even mean-spirited; on the contrary, there can be some good that comes from any venture, whether or not the perilous plan as originally devised did or did not necessarily take into account the lives of those involved; for that matter, never were the best intentions for said involvees under consideration, as any mission - no matter the manner it materialized - means more than the motivations of the manipulators, particularly when given greater gravity as the commitment to the quest, and its concomitant codifications and conventions, coalesced; at least, that is what Elrond and Erestor told themselves - in the legalistic convolutions of their administrative capacities - in order to placate their troubled consciences; however, their attempts at assuaging their worried minds aside, it is with just such circumlocutionary logistics that countless numbers of innocent lives have been sacrificed at the sanguine altar of bureaucratic management.

"Stop usin' 'em big words!" Halfviss groaned as he shifted on an undersized chair in a newly redecorated antechamber of the Last Homely House. "Yer makin' me head hurt!"

"What's taking them Elvish folk so long?" Hob grumbled impatiently as he fidgeted alongside the polysyllabiphobic Beorning. "I'm getting hungry – right fearfully so, if you get my meaning."

"You can't rush these confounded Elves," Ossian snapped. "They are practically eternal; ergo, they care not for what precious little time we lowly mortals have left us."

Adurant, having become quite adept at ignoring the bard's sarcasm, asked, "Ossian, just what did the Noldo Erestor discuss with you last night? You seem entirely too reticent for one of such…endearing loquacity."

The bard took the barb in stride and shrugged. "I have heard that the Elves say both yes and no," Ossian replied. "In this case, Erestor has raised confustication to an art form. I feel I know less now than before we arrived in Imladris."

Not to be deterred, Adurant continued, "Then, what of your lord, Boromir? Were you given no news of his arrival or departure?"

"That he has departed is clear," Ossian answered in irritation, "but there is more to this tale than Erestor wished to tell. Obviously, it is for Elrond, Master of this house, to make clear just what has transpired here."

"Those of our kinfolk from Erebor still present in Rivendell are equally tight-lipped," one of the Dwarves, named Skirfir, interrupted. "But it seems that a party of mixed race left Rivendell less than a week ago. The Gondorion you mentioned, this Boromir, was among them, as well as a Dwarf, Gimli, son of the renowned Gloin. Where they were heading or what reasons they had for leaving are unknown to us."

"And those what know aint speaking," Skirfir's brother, Skafith, grunted.

"The chieftain of my folk…Lord Aragorn…he is with them as well," the ranger Malvegil said hesitantly, quite unsure whether he should divulge such information. "He took with him four Hobbits from the Shire."

"What, as comic relief?" Ossian snickered; that is, until he sensed the withering glare of Hob.

"Shire Hobbits, you say, Malvegil?" Hob asked with great interest, while still keeping a wary eye on the bothersome bard. "Did you manage to get their surnames, perchance? I only ask because I wonder if there was any Heathertoes among them? And if not, any Brockhouses? You see, Brockhouse was my mother's maiden name, and it is said the first Brockhouses of Bree also had land around about the Brandywine…"

"Needless to say," Ossian rudely interrupted, "I am sure these fascinating queries and more shall be answered when the Master of the Last Homely House makes his entrance momentarily."

There was a moment of silent anticipation as the group of travelers peered anxiously at the door. Ossian, who had made a grand sweeping gesture toward the doorway, repeated "momentarily," but then faltered and sighed when nothing happened. Hob sniffed indignantly and continued peppering Malvegil in regards to Heathertoeses, Brockhouses and various and sundry other related Halfling familial questions. Malvegil, for his part, remained congenial regarding the genealogical agenda the gentle-hobbit engendered, but to say he was genuinely interested would be disingenuous.

At long last, Elrond, Erestor, and other members of the Elvish council entered the antechamber. We shan't bother with the Elves without speaking roles, but among the group were two Noldor of interest (and thus, dialogue). One was the great Glorfindel, a veritable Elven vision resplendent in gold _lamé_ robes surmounting a black velvet doublet. It seems that Elrond and Erestor, with the wily candor of ancient campaigners and conspirators, had given Glorfindel the notion that the plan for a diversionary Fellowship was, indeed, his idea all along; therefore, if the mission proved to be a miserable failure (which seemed to be an inevitability), then the scion of the House of the Golden Flower would be, in effect, politically deflowered. But before the blush was off the rose, the second Noldo of the group (at least, the other with dialogue) certainly piqued the interest of a certain bard of Gondor. Ossian rose from his seat and bowed with a graceful flourish as the raven-haired Arien was introduced.

"Milady Arien, 'tis a wonder to behold one so fair yet so deep in the counsels of the Wise," Ossian crooned. "One would not see such a rare and radiant flower in the council chambers of Minas Tirith."

Arien frowned slightly and offered a stiff curtsy in return. "Mayhap that is because the Noldor do not treat their women as chattel, Man of Gondor," Arien replied sharply. "If I were one of your herd, perhaps I would swoon at your shepherdly persuasions."

Ossian, for his part, smiled and replied, "Ah, it seems Imladris houses a sun so dark I should freeze to death."

Erestor cleared his throat uncomfortably and with a curt motion urged Arien to sit. The maiden demurely complied. Elrond bit his lip in consternation, but nodded to Erestor to continue.

"The Council of Imladris bids you welcome, travelers from afar. I am certain you have many questions, but I ask that you to withhold your inquiries until the Lords Elrond and Glorfindel have spoken."

Erestor then introduced Master Elrond who, having handily memorized his speech given during the previous 'Council of Elrond' sequence from _The Fellowship of the Ring_, reiterated the entire, soliloquacious, chapter-long _History of the One Ring_. Many hours later, with Halfviss and Hob snoring sonorously in basso/tenor accompaniment, Elrond finally concluded his overtaxing oratorio. With that bit over (severely abridged for the sake of fan-fiction brevity as well as copyright laws), it was Glorfindel's turn, but not before a nuncheon was served to ensure Halfviss and Hob remained at least partially attentive, particularly since this aspect of the council concerned their participation.

Glorfindel rose with an ethereal air of Elvish mystification (he had turned on his Caliquendic aura for added effect). Gazing somberly at each of the bemused travelers in turn, Glorfindel reached into the pocket of his mystery robe and whipped out a shaving kit. Oh, sorry - that was a lyric from Frank Zappa's 'Cosmic Debris', and has no place in this story. Actually, the Noldo reached into his robe, brought forth a simple gold ring, and placed it reverently on the table. The ring seemed to pulse with an unseen energy, radiating strange whispers and conjuring unsettling images in the minds of those that beheld it.

"Is that…is that the One Ring?" Malvegil gasped in dismay.

"Don't be silly," Elrond said while rolling his eyes. "Had you been listening to my oration, you would recall that the One Ring is now in the care of the Nine Walkers, who even now are heading south with the intent of destroying it."

Ossian cocked an eyebrow and gazed at the ring. "If this is not the One Ring, then what, pray tell, is it?"

"Oh, it is merely one of the many magic rings we have laying about Imladris," Glorfindel shrugged. "One of Celebrimbor's early failed experiments, I believe."

"What's it do? I mean, magically speakin'?" Hob, now done with his lunch and quite alert, asked with Hobbitish wonder.

Elrond pursed his lips and then sighed. "Near as we can tell," the Half-Elf said, "it pulses with an unseen energy, radiates strange whispers and conjures unsettling images."

"It is the best we could do within a limited timeframe," Erestor added.

"Yes, the other prototypical rings seemed to be part of Celebrimbor's private jest," Glorfindel continued. "Some cause flatulence, others sweaty palms. One gave me a rash."

"I never cared for Celebrimbor's sense of humor," Elrond said with much distaste.

"The Feanorians were never a particularly funny lot," Erestor agreed.

"But the magical properties of this ring are neither here nor there," Glorfindel stated, resuming his magisterial air. "Actually, this ring has all the requisite propensities needed to pawn it off as the authentic One Ring. One can sense its presence – a useful thing indeed for the coming mission."

Adurant had remained silent for much of the meeting, but his pointed Elven ears perked up when he heard Glorfindel's last statement. "Mission?" the Sinda inquired. "What mission would that be?"

"Oh yes, the mission," Elrond said with a hint of embarrassment. "I don't believe you have mentioned the mission, Glorfindel. The one that you proposed to Erestor and I?"

Glorfindel cast a sidelong glance at Elrond and then Erestor. Imagine, some over-exalted Half-Elf and his toady Noldo, Erestor, trying to put one over on a reincarnated Calaquende. Other than having some formidable breeding stock, Elrond had never seen the Two Trees, never crossed the frozen Helcaraxë, and never beheld Gondolin with its preternatural white spires gleaming in the dancing light of a young sun. Why, Elrond had even botched this whole One Ring fiasco in the first place, allowing Isildur to take the Ring from Sammath Naur unscathed. Had Glorfindel been there, he would have pushed the disagreeable Numenorean into the Crack of Doom just as easily as he had thrust the Balrog off a cliff, and that would be that. But he would play the game. In fact, with his Elf senses tingling, he presciently foresaw that this least of quests - this charlatan's charade - could perhaps be a noble pursuit; an endeavor with unseen but fortuitous consequences. After all, Glorfindel had become quite handy at prophesying (take the one about the WitchKing not dying by the hand of man – now, that was a good one!). Yes, he would play the game, and rub it in the face of the supposed "Master' of Imladris when all was said and done.

Glorfindel smiled confidently and looked upon the travelers. "We of the council require eight volunteers to act in the semblance of the true Fellowship – decoys in a deadly game of cat and mouse with the One Enemy, who we shall not name here…"

"That would be Sauron," Hob whispered to a confused Halfviss.

"…Eight brave souls to go forth from Imladris and travel a dark path fraught with danger. Eight to draw the Eye of the One Enemy away from our true intent: the destruction of the One Ring!"

"You keep referring to 'eight' volunteers," Ossian said hesitantly, as if his skill at mathematics had somehow dwindled. "Are there not, in fact, nine members of the Fellowship?"

Glorfindel nodded at the bard's perceptiveness. "There are indeed nine. But we require only eight of you now present to join the stalwart band. For you see, the Lady Arien has already consented to be the ninth member of this quest."

Ossian stood up immediately and bowed. "My original mission has failed," the bard said, barely able to keep from beaming broadly, which seemed odd, given the subject matter. "As you have inferred, my Lord Boromir has now traveled beyond my ken and keep; therefore, please accept my humble request to join this endeavor. For I cannot return to Gondor without some measure of success in my journey, and it is likely that I can better make amends here, contributing to the war effort in my own particular…idiom."

Perturbed, Arien gazed out the window, wishing to be somewhere else entirely.

Adurant rolled his eyes and stood up also. "I, too, shall join this mission," the Elf stated flatly, "If only to act as chaperone for the Lady Arien." He then scowled at Ossian and returned to his seat.

Hob, who was intrigued by the original proposition and the fact that Shire Hobbits were members of the actual Fellowship, still refrained from volunteering. The whole _'dark path fraught with danger'_ aspect of the quest had unnerved him. But suddenly, his boon companion, Halfviss the Beorning, rose and spoke.

"I aint a' one to admit I 'eard rightly or no," Halfviss grunted. "I'll nae pretend I got much on the uptake, save 'ere an' there in yer speechifyin', lor' bless ye; but if some maun gae inter nicht 'gainst ter beasties, it'll be a' Halfviss a' gang as well."

The council members gaped at the Beorning, unsure exactly what Halfviss had said; that is, until Hob translated: "Halfviss don't rightly understand what was said, but if some must go into the night against the enemy, Halfviss will go also."

"Ah, excellent!" Elrond said uneasily. "Errr…thank you…Halfviss."

Then it was Malvegil's turn. The youthful ranger was filled with excitement. Never had he had such a chance to prove himself. And to go on such a mission and emulate Aragorn, the greatest of all chieftains of his people! It seemed to Malvegil the defining moment of his short years. "I, Malvegil of Fornost, shall represent the Dunedain on this adventure…I mean, mission," Malvegil blurted rapidly. Tongue-tied, he bowed briskly and then, red-faced, slunked back into his seat.

After a brief discussion with his kindred, Nyrath the Dwelf stood up as well. "Let it not be said the Dwarves are a faithless lot," he said boldly. "The brothers Skafith and Skirfir shall accompany me in this quest. Our comrade Dolgthrasir shall return to our kin in the Blue Mountains carrying the news of our decision and of the untimely death of Eikinskjaldi."

At the Dwelf's announcement, Adurant squirmed uneasily in his seat, which delighted Ossian to no end.

"The faith of the Dwarves was never in question, Nyrath," Elrond replied with a nod. "We are ever grateful for your timely offer of aid." Then turning his dark gaze squarely on Hob, the Half-Elven added, "Anyone else? Anyone at all? We have to look the part of the Fellowship, do we not? We must have a Ringbearer to assure cohesion and compliance in our aims."

With the entire assemblage now staring at the nervous Breelander, Hob cast a sad glance down at his feet, which dangled helplessly from his chair. He had needed assistance merely to climb upon his perch. You and your big mouth! The Hobbit thought to himself. You should have stayed in Bree, dolt! But no, you had to go lookin' for adventure elsewhere, didn't you? Bridges and Trolls! At this point, cleaning beer mugs in dirty dishwater seemed to be the utmost limit of excitement the Hobbit wished to experience for the rest of his days. Then, he caught sight of Halfviss. The Beorning smiled gently and gave Hob a wink and a nod.

"Sure'n, there'll be nae nasties 'armin' a 'air on yer 'obbit 'ead," Halfviss said. "Stick wi' us, li'l feller. Stick wi' us!"

Hob grinned sheepishly and said, "Well, it's a sight more adventurin' than I had a mind to do, if you get me, but if there's trouble ahead, there's trouble behind as well. I'll go in with my eyes open and my ear to the ground. 'Sides, someone's got to look after Halfviss, here."

"Excellent, excellent!" Elrond said with a clap of his hands. Then, noticing that the chapter far exceeded the two-thousand word limit arbitrarily set by the narrator, he concluded, "Oh, would you look at the time? Perhaps we should all refresh ourselves and reconvene at another time, say tomorrow morning? Excellent! Rest now, my friends, and we shall speak further on the morrow."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter X: Meanwhile, Back in Mordor**

As a long, heavily armed procession filed out of Barad-dur and headed northwestward to the Morannon and then, eventually, to the Brown Lands and beyond, two rank-and-file Orcs fell to talking.

"Garn!" the first Orc, named Shiznit, snapped with the typical Orkish euphemism replacing the harsher obscenity such gangrel creatures were more likely to spew in their guttural conversations, but for decorum's sake were not allowed to use given the era of literary censorship in which the story was first published. "He's at it again!" Shiznit added in disgust.

"Who's at it? And at what, says I?" the second Orc, Slûtbag, replied.

"The narra'or," Shiznit griped. "Always gummin' up the bleedin' works with his tedious asides."

"Never could cotton to meta-fiction," Slûtbag agreed with a sneer. "I mean, I understand the rationale - this bein' a satire and all - but the story loses its immediacy...its...its distention of disbelief."

"You mean its _suspension_ of disbelief," Shiznit corrected.

"Suspension, distention," Slûtbag shrugged noncommittally, "it's bloody bulgin' with it, in any case. Swollen wi' inyerendo."

"_Innuendo_," Shiznit countered.

"Where its goin', it's _inyerendo_," Slûtbag cackled.

The two halted their belletristic tête-à-tête briefly as a fierce Mordorion destrier passed close by. Astride the hideous steed sat a grim man, clad wholly in black with a tall helm. An Orc slavedriver tipped the bill of his rusty iron helmet and lowered his eyes in deference as the haughty figure rode further up the line.

"Who's the 'ell is that?" Shiznit said, rather surprised to see a man that wasn't meant for supper.

"Who, him?" Slûtbag shrugged again. "That's the Mouth."

"The Mouth? Mouth of who?" Shiznit asked.

"Him what can't be named," Slûtbag answered in a whisper.

"And who is _Him what can't be named_?" Shiznit continued.

"Go on," Slûtbag spat, "you can't be that dense. Him what can't be named – _the Great Eye_."

"Oh, _that_ Him," Shiznit nodded dimly. The Orc arched a ratty eyebrow and glanced dubiously at his comrade. "So…this feller's name…is..._The Mouth of Him What Can't Be Named_?"

"No, stupid," Slûtbag grumbled, "that aint it. But I can't repeat his name."

Shiznit rolled his eyes. "How can the feller have a name what can't be named?" he chuckled. "That makes no sense."

Slûtbag lowered his voice and in a choked whisper said, "I can't name his name because of the _prohibition_."

Shiznit frowned. "Prohibition? What prohibition?"

"The prohibition against naming Him what can't be named."

"Him? You mean the Great Eye?"

"Yes-s-s," Slûtbag hissed.

"So, let's see if I follow you here," Shiznit sighed in irritation. "That feller is the Mouth…"

"Yes-s-s," Slûtbag repeated.

"The Mouth of S-s-s…"

"Don't you dare say it!" Slûtbag barked.

"But how can he have a name what can't be said?" Shiznit growled in frustration. "That's bloody idiotic! I mean, its not like we're takin' the lord's name in vain."

"It can't be helped, even when taken out-of-context," Slûtbag stated matter-of-factly. "It's a literary convention of the plot."

"Well, what the 'ell do you call him then?"

"Oh, 'round here we don't call him nothin'. It's best not to mention him at all."

Not to be put off, Shiznit decided to attack the problem at a different angle. "Okay then. This feller - this _Mouth of Him What Can't Be Named -_ what's he do, exactly?"

"Why, he's the Lieutenant of Barad-dur, that's what he is," Slûtbag said reverently.

Shiznit glowered. "He don't look like no Nazgul."

"He aint," Slûtbag replied, "that's the thing: he's a man - a mortal man."

"He aint got no Ring?"

"Nope."

"No great pterodactyl-like flyin' beastie thing?"

"Nope."

"He aint got that Nazgulish high-pierced shriek whats I hate?"

"Oh, I hates that as well! But no, he aint got any of that."

"Well, what's he good for then?"

"I don't rightly know. But he'd flay you alive as soon as look at ya, that's what I says."

"Mean, is he?"

"Over-the-top cruel, he is. Worse than any Orc."

Shiznit was quite impressed. "Where'd he come from then?"

Deep in thought, Slûtbag stroked his chin and after a moment's consideration, answered, "No one rightly knows, but my best guess is he's a Black Numenorean."

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, he dresses all in black."

"That makes sense, I guess" Shiznit nodded. "But what's his real name? I mean, he can't have gone through his whole life bein' called _The Mouth of Him What Can't Be Named_."

"That's just it," Slûtbag replied, now as equally perplexed, "he's forgotten it!"

"Forgot his own name? And how do you go about forgettin' yer own name? I mean, it's not like yer social security number or the wife's birthday."

"Just the same, he don't know it anymore."

"Odd bird."

"I'll say."

The two Orcs trudged in silence for a while, following the loping cadence of their comrades. Unable to let the matter lie, Shiznit bleated, "Well, if he's the Lieutenant of Barad-dur, what's he doin' wi' us then? Aint he got no lieu-tenanting to do back 'ome?"

"He's on a mission," Slûtbag grunted bluntly, "and we're his bodyguard."

Shiznit was so used to blindly following orders, he hadn't considered where he was going, or why. Concerned, he finally said, "Well, where are we goin'? And why?"

Slûtbag nudged closer to Shiznit and with a conspiratorial buzz he muttered, "It's a secret."

Shiznit was losing his patience. "Garn! If it's a secret, how do you know it's a secret?" he grumbled. "Secrets aint secret if you know it's a secret!"

"Shhhh!" Slûtbag rasped angrily. "Shut yer trap, says I!" The Orc looked about warily to make sure no else had heard them. Satisfied, he whispered, "It's a secret, it is, but Nûshbaum in Accounting let me in on it."

"Nûshbaum?" Shiznit tut-tutted. "What's he know? Just 'cause he can count makes him reliable?"

"It does," Slûtbag growled through gritted teeth. "Nûshbaum's got to account for all the expenses on a mission like this, see? You know how tight-fisted the One Eye is."

"I'll say," Shiznit groaned. "I haven't gotten a raise this Age."

"Anyway," Slûtbag continued, "it seems the _Mouth-of-you-know-who _really botched the last job the boss handed him, and so he got stuck wi' this one to make amends."

"Botched it, did he?"

"Aye. Was sent on an embassy to Erebor, he was. Had to get some important war info from the Dwarves, he did. But they didn't cough up nothin', or sose I've heard."

"No surprise. Dwarves is stubborn buggers. And tough - like cooked shoe leather."

Slûtbag grimaced at the thought of scraping all the hair off a Dwarf prior to roasting. "Aint worth the time to cook, really" he agreed. "Just the same, the Great Eye were pissed, he was, even though the Mouth were the apple of his eye."

"Go on, go on," Shiznit urged impatiently.

"Well, here's the thing I was gettin' at: Nûshbaum says our mission is to go to the Withered Heath."

"The Withered Heath?" Shiznit cried in dismay but Slûtbag quickly shushed him up. "Aint the Withered Heath a' ways up north?" Shiznit added in a quieter tone. "Hunnerts and bloody hunnerts of miles from hereabouts?"

"Aye," Slûtbag sadly commiserated. "But that aint all."

Shiznit bit his lip till his fangs nearly drew blood. "On with it, damn you, on with it!"

"Alright, alright," Slûtbag said, "easy there, big feller. I was just sayin' that, first off, the Mouth'll be reviewin' the Eastern legions for the comin' invasion…"

"Yes, yes, yes…and?" Shiznit wheezed, barely able to restrain himself.

"Dragons."

"What?"

"The Mouth's job is to see to it that them dragons up in the Heath help in the attack."

Shiznit laughed aloud. "There aint no dragons left, fool! Not since Smaug the Golden bought the farm nigh on sixty year ago!"

"Oh, there be dragons, dolt," Slûtbag growled, stung by Shiznit's mocking laugh. "Course, they may not be as big as Ol' Smaug, but they be just as mean and just as tricksy."

"So…let me get this straight," Shiznit snickered with grinning incredulity, "the Mouth here is gonna round up some li'l dragons, all hissing like tiny teapots, and sic 'em on the enemy? What's the plan, then? Are we gonna have the Dwarves dyin' o' laughter?"

"You'll be laughin' out the other side o' yer mouth, and that's for certain, fool!" Slûtbag sneered. "There be dragons what can swallow you whole as a snack and still have room for dinner and dessert!"

"We'll see, we'll see!" Shiznit guffawed. "It's a harebrained scheme if ever I heard o' one."

At that moment, the slavedriver caught part of the ongoing dialogue and barked, "Enough o' yer yappin', maggots! We got marchin' to do. So march and shut yer traps!"

The crack of a whip emphasized the slavedriver's gruff command and Shiznit and Slûtbag fell into sullen silence.

"It's a sign of desperation, is all I'm saying," Shiznit added after awhile.

"Yeah, well someone's crackin', and that's for sure," Slûtbag agreed, sadly seeing the lunacy of the mission at last. "But that's what you get when yer boss is a great flamin' eyeball."

"Now, now, now," Shiznit smiled sympathetically and patted Slûtbag on the shoulder. "It's a long march to the Heath, aint it? Plenty o' diversions along the way, aint there? We can get lost in a pinch, can't we?

"Oh, I like your thinkin', brother Shiznit, indeed I do!" Slûtbag said, perking up appreciably.

"Just follows Ol' Shiznit here, my fine Slûtbag," the Orc replied in a cautious whisper as the slavedriver neared them again. "We can really go places, you and I!"

"Just like in the bad ol' days, dear Shiznit?"

"Just like the good ol', bad ol' days, my friend."

The whip hissed through the air and with a resounding snap bit the bridge of Shiznit's nose. It stung fiercely, of course, but the blood running in rivulets from his nostrils tasted good.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter XI: What Plans Doth Span the Elvish Minds for Man?**

Ossian had the sinking feeling that something was amiss. As he replenished the supplies in his horse's saddlebags and adjusted his worn saddle (a standard issue Gondorion Army lump of leather so uncomfortable, that it was quite obvious why Gondor preferred its infantry to cavalry), the bard could not shake a shade of misapprehension, a presentiment of foreboding, a lack of clarity regarding motive and mission. The Elves certainly seemed sincere, but the Elven race was always so bloody serious and gracefully tactful it was nearly impossible to divine their true intentions.

The Elves wore masks of somber sobriety and pious propriety that gave Ossian ample anxiety whenever he had discourse with them. Adurant the Sinda appeared to be lightening up a bit after their journey together, and so he was less a cipher than these haughtier Elves of Noldorin stock; even so, it still seemed he was riding alongside a placard in place of a person - a divinely-endowed porcelain prop of virtuosity.

In retrospect, Ossian probably seemed grossly plebian to these immortals, a drunken lout characteristic of the mob of sickly Aftercomers who usurped Elvish authority with the importunate and grasping callousness of poor, illiterate country cousins newly endowed with a rich inheritance. Nevertheless, the bard felt ill at ease with this mission. He would respect the directives of Master Elrond and follow them without question (outwardly, in any case), just as he would obey the orders of the Lords Faramir or Boromir, but that did not dispel the lingering doubt regarding the vagaries of this quest. Why, the quest itself was a vagary - a deception within a deception. But who, then, were the deceivers and who was the deceived? Ah, there was the rub!

Glorfindel, aside from his Eldarin foppery, seemed the most genuine of the Elves of the White Council, but this guilelessness was perhaps merely naivety. Erestor, whom Ossian didn't trust at all, and Master Elrond to a lesser degree, gave the distinct impression that the Fellowship's quest was a pretext for some hidden agenda. Ossian cursed under his breath and then glanced over at the Noldorin maid Arien, who was also in the midst of readying her steed for the journey. What is her part in all this? he thought with a great deal of perplexity. Granted, he had heard she was a fine marksman with the bow (or would that be _markselleth_?), and she was steeped in the healer's arts for which Elrond himself was renowned. But why a woman? This, of course, all passed through Ossian's thoughts in the manner of a pre-Woman's Lib chauvinist raised in a patriarchal society. It was not that he was a misogynist; on the contrary, he loved every graceful curve of a woman's glorious figure, every dimple and mound and musky hollow. He reveled in the company of women; particularly high-spirited vixens who could give as well as they got. And Arien was, if anything, high-spirited.

Arien, feeling Ossian's leering reverie climb the nape of her neck, turned and scowled at the bard. Yes, definitely high-spirited, Ossian winced and looked askance. They had obviously gotten off on the wrong foot during the previous evening's feast, although the bard could not rightly recollect what it was that he said or did that caused offense - which wasn't surprising, as Elven cordials were particularly potent for mortals. But Arien had barely said a word to him all morning, which led him to believe that he had been perhaps a bit too charming the night before.

The bard shrugged and looked about at the rest of the intrepid band of stragglers, hangers-on, half-breeds, half-wits and oddities. The Halfling Hob looked less like he was going on a dangerous journey and more like a chef preparing for a seven-course feast, ladening his panting pony with all sorts of skillets, utensils, crockery and provender. If anything, the travelers would not be going hungry anytime soon. The three Dwarves – check that, two and one-half Dwarves – sulked in silence, hissing occasionally in grim whispers and looking altogether too conspiratorial for Ossian's liking. Malvegil and Adurant talked quietly about their steeds, both sharing a reverence and an almost mystical bond with the equine race. And then there was Halfviss. Ossian was not quite sure if the lumbering Beorning was even aware that they were preparing for a lengthy, perhaps lethal, trek. At present, he seemed more interested in Hob's foodstuffs, gazing longingly as each parcel of precious cargo was stored neatly away.

Ossian heaved the heaviest sigh ever recorded in the annals of Middle-earth - perhaps in all of modern literature. This task would not be easy; as a matter of fact, Ossian suspected that the chances of survival were scant at best. But the bard was never a morning person, and his rude awakening earlier merely compounded his discomfiture.

Bleary-eyed and cantankerous, it had taken a gentle kick from an amused Adurant to wake the snoring bard, rapt as he was in a drunkard's slumbered repose. Ossian had almost made it to his bed, but Adurant found him only a few feet away, curled up on the floor with a rug bundled haphazardly over his sprawled form.

Cursing, the bard dipped his hands and face in the frigid waters of an icy ewer atop a rather ornate washstand by the window, and shook himself vigorously. This was not a good idea, for he lost his balance and sent the basin careening to the floor with a splash while he tried to steady himself. He cursed again as he made the ill-fated decision of attempting to put his boots on while standing. The bard glared malevolently at Adurant as the elf stood smirking at the doorway.

"Damnable Elves!" Ossian spat, "don't you ever sleep?"

Adurant winked and replied, "Damnable bards! Can't they hold their liquor?"

Ossian cracked a pained smile as he slumped to the floor in an effort to get his boot on. "'Tis not the holding of the liquor, my dear Sinda," the bard grumbled, "but rather that we hold it in such vast quantities!"

And Ossian thought wistfully back to the night before. Clouded as his recollection was, he recalled playing and singing for hours - which must have amused the stuffy Elves to no end, given the inordinate pride they had for their own perceived musical excellence. And the bedazzling Arien was ever close-by, silent and solitary – or so it seemed to Ossian – a caged raptor in a mews, tied to her perch by the cordial restraints of political necessity. That she wanted to be elsewhere was patently evident. Yet, even now, he could nearly catch the fragrances of hyacinth and honeysuckle wafting in beguiling snatches from her raven hair. He had wished the night would never end. Unfortunately, it hadn't ended. For even though it was still dark outside, Elrond had caused the bright bells of morn to toll e're the drowsing sun breached the craggy mountain battlements that stolidly fortified the hidden vale. Even with a hangover, Ossian thought in poetics.

The bothered bard limped to his feet, still trying to adjust the recalcitrant boot that mocked at his heel. "Lead on, Elf," Ossian groused, "for certainly we should meet Master Elrond whilst I look and feel my best!"

The meeting was a very private affair. Ossian muttered something about, "Damned Elvish secretiveness," but Adurant could not catch the entire comment. Waiting in an antechamber were four Elves: Elrond, of course, Erestor, Glorfindel and, once again, the Lady Arien, sitting in icy splendor at the far end of the table. Ossian's head was hammering, but he made every effort to make a suitable impression, while trying his best not to seem daunted by these Noldorin Lords. Bowing low (and becoming rather squeamish as the blood rushed to his pounding temples), Ossian said, with just a hint of discomfort, "Greetings my lords. Master Elrond, you mentioned some trifling errand yesterday?"

Elrond raised an eyebrow at the Ossian's impertinence. "Trifling? I don't recall using that term, bard. But as mortals view much that is dangerous with a rash frivolity, I shall take your statement with that sentiment."

Ossian stiffened at the mild rebuke. This was no place to bandy words about. Evidently, Elrond could read much about the bard's cynical attitude towards the world. He nodded to Elrond at the realization and the Master of Imladris continued, "Know you any of the tongues of Rhunnish men?"

Again, Ossian nodded. "Yes, milord, two dialects: one variant spoken by the Woodsmen of Southern Mirkwood, and another I learned on a trade embassy to Far Rhun." But Ossian faltered a moment and continued, "Yet the latter I cannot speak with any certainty. Long ago and in less dangerous times did I use that ungainly speech."

Elrond frowned. "It shall have to do, I suppose," he replied finally. Elrond glanced toward Glorfindel, and Ossian noticed the imperceptible passing of knowledge from one Eldali to the next, unspoken yet plain.

"Ossian, this is where you and your comrades come into this tale," Glorfindel at last spoke. "Grave news has come to us from Gloin of the Dwarves, who has delivered a message from his King, Dain of Erebor. Emissaries of the Dark Lord have visited the Dwarves for a third and final time, but Dain has refused to divulge any information to them. War between Erebor and Mordor is now imminent. The Great Enemy's armies are massing in Rhun with the express purpose of attacking Dain of Erebor and King Brand of Dale."

Ossian put his hand over his mouth and shook his head slowly. The Orcs had already invested Ithilien and were inching towards Osgiliath even before the bard had left Gondor. Couple that with the investiture of the northern lands, and Ossian could see at last the vast web of Sauron's intent in total, and his shoulders sagged at the enormity of the situation.

"What would you have us do?" Ossian replied in quiet resignation.

"There is one more piece of information," Elrond interrupted. "The Dwarves also spoke of an unnamed and deathly shadow stirring in the Withered Heath. Scouts they have sent to put a name to this evil, but none have returned. We feel that it is in our best interests to aid the Dwarves as best we may; therefore, we need you to seek out this new threat and see if it is somehow tied to the Dark Lord's invasion."

"So you see," Glorfindel added, "your mission is two-fold: to act as a diversion for the true Fellowship, drawing the enemy's greedy eye northward, while even now the Fellowship travels south; and to judge what, if any, dangers may be present in the vicinity of the Withering Heath."

"You shall be our spy," hoary Erestor said matter-of-factly, continuing where Glorfindel had left off. "Once you have done with your northern journey, you shall leave forthwith to the Rhunnish lands of the East and ascertain the size and movements of the Dark Lord's forces, and then to return as you may, via Erebor, to divulge what secrets you have uncovered."

Ossian, now quite irritated, was about to say, "Is that all?" but fortunately, Adurant cut him off. "This thing you would have us do," the Elf said hesitantly, "how could a small band of nine warriors ever hope to complete such a task?"

Master Elrond gazed sadly at his Sinda counterpart. "Imladris is but an island of calm in a raging sea," he replied somberly. "We no longer have the force to resist Mordor, nor aid the Free Peoples outside our borders. It may be cold comfort to you, perhaps, but all of Mirkwood, and Erebor and Dale as well, may burn in the conflagration if our plans fail. Even Imladris itself may hear the harsh croak of Orkish war cries at the last."

Ossian, more annoyed than ever, was inclined to ask sarcastically, "And?" But Erestor noticed the anger welling in the Gondorion bard and added, "We feel that speed, stealth and your uncanny knack for deception will avail you more than a force of any size."

Ossian caught the backhanded compliment regarding his deceptiveness, and accepted it as a badge of honor. He prided himself in his guile - it had saved him on many occasions.

Ossian and Adurant bowed and left the Elf Lords to their high-minded ruminations (and the Lady Arien to her impenetrable silence). As they walked down the hall, Ossian rolled his eyes at Adurant and fumed in fawning mockery, "Most assuredly, Master Elrond, after we crawl over the bones of all those fallen Dwarves to find some unspeakable evil haunting the Withered Heath, we shall certainly eke out a few harried moments to chase about Sauron's entire northern army. Will that be all? Or shall we then ride off to Mordor and help the hapless Hobbits lose that cursed Ring?"

Adurant bit his lip. This was indeed going to be an interesting journey.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter XII: Why Scenic Mountain Routes are Seldom Short Cuts**

Ossian felt the whimsical stares, the cold glares, and heard the buzzing whispers as his cavalcade of Middle-earth oddities passed through the Elven conclave of Imladris. As the road rose north and east from the Last Homely House (or, more precisely, the stables which lay behind that shrewdly-styled labyrinth of suites, sitting-rooms and side halls), cliques of inquiring Elves huddled along the path like clutches of humming hens to gander at the gangrel group. The bard had at first thought that the Elves were sniggering at the freakishly oversized Beorning Halfviss, or perhaps the half-pint Breeling Hob – races seldom seen in Rivendell - but as his ears became attenuated to the low mocking hum of the Elves' snide asides, Ossian found the thread of the ravelled thrum wound around the participation of Arien in this mission. _That a Noldorin maid should be put in such a position! What was her father thinking? Things of this nature just are not done in Noldorin society! How could Master Elrond approve of such a measure? No good will come of it!_

Ossian cast a sidelong glance at Arien. Her head was bowed and she was clearly embarrassed by the contempt heaped at her horse's hooves. Instinctively, Arien turned to see the bard spying on her yet again - saw the pity in his eyes. His attempt at a sympathetic smile had an unexpected effect. Her stance now imperious and erect, Arien frowned at Ossian and spurred her horse forward at a brisk trot. Whether she was escaping Ossian's prying eyes, passing the passel of Elvish gawkers, or both, remained to be seen. Nevertheless, within moments Arien had outdistanced both her comrades and the nattering Noldor, and even now was nearing the tumbling foothills and rocky outcrops that bounded the hidden vale of Imladris.

"Bard, you certainly have a way with women," Adurant said with a wicked gleam in his eye.

Ossian spat an Adûnaic curse at the smirking Sinda, and then his thoughts turned again to Arien's plight. Even her own folk thought it ridiculous that this Elvish maid was leaving home and hearth! What, then, was she doing riding off into danger – riding off with men! This was wholly unconventional for a period piece of this nature. Even a satire at this perilous juncture of Middle-earth history should have a semblance of canonic elements to sustain believability! Then the bard considered the rumor of robustly buxom shield maidens in Rohan. He had never met one, personally, but he wondered if their steel breastplates had the appropriate contours. How were they fitted? With his mind now traversing elsewhere - down undulating paths which decorum politely deigns impassable - he forgot about Arien for the time being.

"I'm 'ungry," Halfviss grunted as he loped along with the riders.

Malvegil raised an eyebrow. "Halfviss, you just ate!" the ranger said in almost parental consternation. "Why, we just left Master Elrond's house and we have many miles yet to go before we stop again."

"I knows it. Lor', don't I knows it!" Halfviss grumped glumly between long strides. "But jes' thinkin' 'bout ther trip's got me tumbly a' grumblin'."

"Here, my dear Beorning," Hob cried as he tried to push his placid pony into a faster gait to keep up with Halfviss. "I have some venison jerky 'round about somewheres," the Hobbit continued as he tried awkwardly to maintain his forward impetus while rifling through his bags. Alighting on the proper pack, Hob handed Halfviss a great hunk of dried meat.

"'Em 'obbits is good folk, they is!" he mumbled between snatching breaths as he nearly inhaled the venison. "Hob, me dear, anyfin' you need, jes' ask ol' Halfviss 'ere. Jes' ask'n you shall…ummm…get."

"Don't mention it, Halfviss!" Hob replied, nibbling a bit of the jerky himself, as the exertion in finding the viand had caused him sudden hunger pangs as well.

~~oo~~OO~~oo~~OO~~oo~~

Elrond peered anxiously from the great oriel window of his study and watched the faux-fellowship slowly wend its way out of sight. In the far corner of the bay, below a corbel support high atop the arched upper window casing, a fly had become enmeshed in a spider's web. It struggled vainly to free itself, maddeningly buzzing in fits and starts. But each burst of energy only caused it to become further entangled, and brought the savage predator closer and closer with each futile tug of the strands. The Master of Imladris became quite peeved. The trap was high enough up the tall windows that he would have to jump to save the fly from its fate. He would look ridiculous now, attempting such a senseless act. Yes, senseless now. Ridiculous.

"I should not have sent Arien on this mission," he muttered, half to himself and half to Erestor, his counselor, who hadn't bothered to look out of the window, nor had he considered the plight of the fly.

"There is naught we can do now," Erestor said with a noncommittal shrug. "The furor will die down - eventually. I dare say all will be forgotten in a few weeks."

Elrond grimaced. "What are weeks to we Elves, whose long memories stretch back to ages past? Is it wisdom that we, for convenience sake, should send a young maid to her inevitable doom?"

"You have seen this?"

"No, I have not seen it!" Elrond barked. "But I feel it. I would have not treated Arwen thus."

"On the contrary," Erestor stated matter-of-factly, "you would have Arwen die a mortal death."

Elrond spun angrily from the window and spat, "It is within her choosing, as it is with all my House! But she shall not make such a choice blithely. She must wait, even as I watch and ware." He sat heavily in his chair, and then he added, as if to buttress his waning resolve, "There are decisions to be made for the greater good - greater aims than even we can now divine." His voice faltered as he ended, "But I shall not surrender up my treasure to a mere fortune-seeker. I shall not trade my jewel for fool's gold."

"But all that glitters is not gold." Erestor mocked.

"Fuck off," Elrond growled.

~~oo~~OO~~oo~~OO~~oo~~

The high pass over the Misty Mountains…

"_Hithaeglir_," Adurant corrected.

The high pass over Hithaeglir was well tended and kept relatively free of debris. The frost giants play no part in this tale, as their winter bowling leagues had not yet formed; besides, they had business of their own further south down the mountain chain, wreaking havoc at the Redhorn Gate…

"Not Redhorn, it is _Caradhras_!" Adurant hissed impatiently.

In any event, the pass above Riven- _Imladris_…

"_Cirith Forn en Andrath_," Adurant added with an approving nod.

…had all the inane duplicate and triplicate naming conventions of an inordinate number of locations peppered throughout Middle-earth. Of great interest to a philologist, obviously, but to the average reader – not so much. The travelers tentatively inched their way past yawning precipices hard by sheer walls of unforgiving granite, furtively feeling every subtle stone nuance, jutting jag and ragged ridge. Their senses were heightened not merely for fear of plummeting into an unseen chasm, but their nerves jangled in anticipation of a sudden Orc attack. They had decided not to take the primary low pass precisely because of renewed Orkish marauding in the vicinity; however, the high pass, although kept relatively Orc-free by the Elves on one side of the mountain, and the Beornings on the other, was still not without the danger of imminent assault. The Orcs, it seemed, had never forgiven Gandalf for the regicide of their king, Bolg (the son of Azog – no word of his dear mum, however), and though they no longer lived in this area of Hithaeglir – preferring the touristy atmosphere and mawkish enticements of kitschy downtown Mount Gundabad – the Orcs still made it a point to inflict as much damage as possible on this well-trammeled trail.

After a particularly arduous ascent, the party decided to halt for a rest at the upper vestiges of the timberline. But with night approaching and Hob insisting on cooking an elaborate meal (heartily seconded by Halfviss), Ossian and Adurant decided, rather begrudgingly, thay they should stay the night there under the last of the sparse pine and larch that stubbornly maintained a wind-swept foothold, clinging tenaciously with stone-splitting roots for their share of the meager soil. Further up the slopes, no trees grew nor life throve, as the ice and snow was hard-packed on the wuthering, hoar-bitten rockscape.

"We really should be pushing on a bit further," Adurant urged. "The moon is nearly full and offers us a great advantage as far as night travel."

To Ossian, everything seemed quite dark and formless, but he trusted in the visual acuity of the Elves. "However," Ossian sighed as he leaned against a low, matted mountain pine, "Hob is already preparing appetizers and will start on the main course presently. This is good a place as any to make camp."

Adurant frowned in the utterly disdainful manner only an Elf could. He scanned the slopes above and shook his head. "Our fire can be spotted by any unfriendly eyes all along those ridges," the Sinda said, pointing for added emphasis. "We make of ourselves an easy target among these twisted trees."

Ossian merely shrugged. "Conversely, these trees offer us a measure of protection in case of a surprise attack." The bard winked and added, "And as you Elves are unsleeping beings, blessed with uncanny sight, I suggest Arien and yourself should take the night watch."

Adurant scowled and wrapped his cloak tightly about himself.

"You have no need to fear for the moment," Ossian continued. "I do not foresee any action sequences occurring at this late stage of the chapter."

"Me feet is done froze stiff," an Orkish sentry complained to his comrade as they perched on a perilous cliff far above the tree line. "Why don't we jes' take 'em now, and 'ave done wi' it?"

"I believe," the other Orc replied perspicaciously, "that the anxiety of the reader 'as not reached a sufficient pitch in order to render a sufficiently bloody climax. One must build the suspense to intolerable levels a' fore springin' a trap.

"Oh."

"No goin' off half-cocked, is all I'm sayin'."

The first Orc glared rather sullenly at the second and opined, "I s'pose this is the end of the chapter, then?

"Aye," the second Orc sighed in resignation and blew into his icy claws for a bit of warmth. "We're in for a long night, it seems."


End file.
